HP: Voldemort's Origins
by VixenPro
Summary: Navigate through Hogwarts' faculty and student body to settle behind the eyes of its most notorious serial killer. An in-depth look inside Hogwarts during Lord Voldemort's stay as a student. No slash, fluffiness, or OOC.
1. Foretaste

**Author's Notes: **_This is supposed to be an in-depth look inside Hogwarts during Voldemort's stay as a student. I thought it would be interesting to explore his experience and development as well as those of the students around him._

_How unnerving (or cool) would it have been to have had He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as your potions partner? Or to have spilled milk on his robes while shuffling in the lunch line? _

_Though this story is going to be challenge for me, I plan for it to be quite extensive with many chapters. Hopefully, I will be able to portray an accurate and detailed account of the student known as Tom Riddle. _

_There is so much exploratory depth involving this character; I never imagined Lord Voldemort as the one dimensional, sexless sociopath Rowling describes – sure, it is a semi-accurate picture, but there has to be a lil' more to him or at least a better reason of why he is the way he is._

_Some of the issues I'll raise will hopefully answer a few questions such as: what effect did his introverted childhood have on his personal life (both in friendships and relationships)? Is he a complete asexual, or is he simply afraid of intimacy? Was he ruled by insecurities and hormones like most teenagers? If he had expressed interest in another individual, how would he have reacted to his feelings? _

_And the most important question: which events catalyzed Tom's psychotic transformation into Lord Voldemort, the most heinous wizard in magical history?_

_Don't get the wrong impression; I assure you it is my goal to avoid fluff and erroneous characterization! It is my mission to construct a believable foundation for an iconic villain. For me to write this properly, however, I feel the best PoV is not just Tom's; I've also chosen an original character. _

_Points of view will switch with ensuing chapters, alternating between the OC's and Tom Riddle's. _

_I feel this is the best approach because it will give readers the opportunity to glimpse inside the mind of Riddle as well as his victim's. You will be able to witness firsthand the mechanics of young Tom's nature, as well as the unhealthy devotion, the panic, and the eventual psychosomatic collapse experienced by the OC. The rating will likely change from "T" to "M" with the progression of the story._

_Enjoy! And please review and subscribe if you do!_

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**I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make a profit from these works. This short story is created for entertainment value only, and is not intended to diminish the original fable.**

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"There was something about him that was alluring. Individually, his features were alarming, precarious even, but placed together they created a perfect balance all the more pleasing to the eye. He was handsome, yet unsettling. She couldn't help but be reminded of a siren, a beautiful creature intent on luring sailors to their deaths with an enchanting lullaby. Such a similarity should have been warning enough. Then again, she'd never been one to exercise caution."

`~*~`

Foretaste

There were days when she would glimpse him in passing.

The halls of Hogwarts were always bustling with students, but it was during the lunch hour and between class periods when the corridors would erupt with a clatter of hurried footsteps and impatient elbows. Seats were the problem; not where she sat, never where she sat, but where others sat.

The teenagers of the grounds were social junkies high on interaction. Friends would group together or meet up after a day of separation; couples adrift in a sea of bodies would anchor until the ringing of a bell forced their parting. It all came down to seats, really. Seats and speed. You couldn't get to one without the other. Where a person sat made all the difference, and so it became important for students to reach their destinations regardless of whose face got squashed against a wall.

The best seats, whether in a classroom or connected to a lunch table, were guarded. The "best" depended solely on who sat where. The Hiley twins insisted upon sitting together by the closest window, something to do with their "cerebral nexus" flourishing best within sunlight. No one had confirmed whether or not their claim of telepathy was true, nor had anyone wanted to. The Hileys were bizarre, best left to their intuitions.

Gregory Polk was inseparable from Belda Swindle, determined to woo her even after several attempts to dissuade him. It had become obvious to everyone the boy was persistent; even Belda's rebuffing spell, which had seared Greg's eyebrows clean off, hadn't deterred his advances.

Then there was Sweeney. His chronic halitosis had transformed him into walking repellant; the use of Wollum's Root had cured his acne, but had given him a revolting case of gingivitis.

Endless circumstances and predicaments had made seating arrangements paramount inside Hogwarts, and so, once again, she was being jostled down the hallway, too tired to become frustrated and too frail to protest. None of it mattered; she didn't need company, and at least she was being shoved in the right direction. Besides, the library could hardly be considered a place for conversation seeing how it spooked procrastinators, a whopping three-fourths of the school.

Would he be there? Probably. Whenever she sought a book, no matter the time, his messy hair could be spotted bobbing between shelves – always near, but never near enough. On one occasion, she was able to glimpse his tie. It had been a small disappointment to realize he belonged to Slytherin, though she knew it was unlikely they shared a house; she recognized most Ravenclaws. At that thought, she rounded a corner giving way to a narrow corridor.

The walls seemed to pulse with a dull hum of distant noise.

Not many students were aware of the back hallways, which was half the reason she used them. It was nice to escape the crowds, to focus on penning her schedule without the rude prods and sharp, "excuse me" of impatient students. There did seem to be one drawback of the unused, stone tunnels: they emitted the feeling of constant encroachment. Maybe it was a cruel illusion weaved into the structure by bored architects. She'd heard about the many peculiarities of the castle from other students. It wouldn't surprise her if this was one of them. Maybe it wasn't a joke at all; maybe it was the suppressed claustrophobia she refused to acknowledge whenever she was in a hurry and desperate to break from the suffocating crowd. Whatever it was, she always forgot how uncomfortable these corridors were until she was halfway to her destination, too close to stop and too far away to turn back.

This was about the time she broke into a trot. It was fast enough to ease anxiety, but slow enough to recover any dignity she had left if someone appeared. Who was she kidding? No one used this passage! She could break into a full run and not even a nosy ghost would see her.

Her pace quickened.

The book bag sagging from her shoulder was beginning to take its toll. She didn't remember it taking this long to reach the library. Had she taken a wrong turn?

She shifted her pack.

The stones were no longer their usual dark grey, but instead had taken on a strange, white hue. Moisture collected on the walls as the temperature dropped slightly. She was beginning to wonder if she was heading toward the dungeons when finally she caught sight of familiar, oak doors. She slowed to a brisk walk, calmed her disheveled hair, and entered the library.

_

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_

**End Notes:** _Plenty of chapters to come! More of Tom will be in the upcoming chapter, which is likely to be much longer. I just wanted to get this small piece out to see if anyone is even interested._

_Big thanks to Alyssa, Kristle, and Sarah for their encouragement and aid when clarity eluded me._

_Positive reviews are precious. Constructive criticism is valued. I know I have a long way to go before I can ever hope to become a good writer, so I need you guys, my readers, to provide feedback. If you enjoyed this chapter, tell me what you liked. If you found it utterly distasteful, tell me what you hated! :) _


	2. A Time For Flight

_**Author's Notes:**__ Sorry for the delay. I've been super busy with moving and finals (talk about hell). _

_As promised, here is the newest chapter with lots more Tom and lots more content. :)_

_

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_

A Time for Flight

The brass was ice-cold.

She gripped the handle tighter and pressed her body against the door. She pushed with her shoulder, but the wood refused to budge.

"C'mon," she hissed, slamming her palm upon the handle.

She turned the key again while placing one foot behind the other. She rammed the door and continued to shove. Her shoes slipped and squeaked during the assault, but the doorway remained sealed.

"Why are you always such a bastard!"

She frequently had problems with this entry, but this time it was notably difficult. Her body was still plastered against the oak and metal when her breathing was interrupted by a deep voice.

"Does this happen often?" it came from behind. It was the voice of a boy; a boy apparently amused by the commotion.

Startled, she brushed away a few strands of sable hair and cleared her throat.

Without turning toward the direction of the question, she replied, "more often than not."

"Odd," was the one word response.

"Is it?" She was quickly becoming irritated. Most girls were weak; she didn't find it odd.

"Very."

"Yes, well, it's likely that the librarian recently requested these doors become especially bothersome for students. It's a deterrent for the Restricted Section." It was a lie; she didn't care. Who was he? Some snot-nosed kid who had come to poke fun at the nerd? She flipped the stray strands of hair over her shoulder and turned to face the stranger.

He stood tall and motionless several strides away, holding a bundle of books. Their spines were cracked, and the dust on the bindings was so thick that they appeared a dull grey. It was a wonder he wasn't sneezing.

His dark hair matched perfectly with his equally dark eyes, but the complexion surrounding them was a stark contrast. His skin was of a sickly, pallid hue; it made the epidermis appear diaphanous, as if the slightest touch would shred the flesh into slivers. And to make matters more unnerving, the expression he wore was nothing short of scrutinizing.

"Oh, really?" he asked.

She ignored the probe; instead, she had become transfixed on his tie, the silver and green tie dangling around his collar.

"Slytherin," he answered. "Occasionally, you can spot us ambling about. Sometimes even in the library."

Her eyebrow twitched.

She tore her gaze from his neck and looked into his eyes. They were dark, but not from the color brown she thought she had seen moments earlier; circles sagged beneath his lids. He looked tired and drained, but his irises were a lively hazel.

"Yes, I think I've seen you before. Here, in the library, I mean."

"Of course you have."

"I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."

"Tom."

"Just, 'Tom'?"

His face betrayed his annoyance before it was veiled by a smile.

The expression seemed foreign at first, but his eyes warmed with the crinkle of paper skin and the widening of his mouth. There was something about him that was alluring. Individually, his features were alarming, precarious even, but placed together they created a perfect balance all the more pleasing to the eye. He was handsome, yet unsettling. She couldn't help but be reminded of a siren, a beautiful creature intent on luring sailors to their deaths with an enchanting lullaby. Such a similarity should have been warning enough. Then again, she'd never been one to exercise caution.

"You haven't told me _your_ name. I'm curious; what is it?" he asked.

"Sorrow Beval."

"Interesting."

He didn't act interested. When he spoke, it was slow and in a spiritless manner; the words seeped from his mouth as if they were an affliction he was trying to rid himself of.

"I saw Peeves floating out of the wall from the Restricted Section," a corner of his thin lips upturned, exposing his teeth in a crooked smile. This time, it was more feral than charming.

"It happened a few moments before you began struggling with the door. Perhaps he's to blame?" he finished.

"Maybe so…" her voice trailed off as she released the brass handle.

Peeves was constantly causing trouble, especially – it often seemed– for her. The poltergeist must have overheard her asking for permission to enter the section, and hurried ahead to sabotage the visit.

"I'd blame your frail frame, but given I saw the nuisance escaping with my own eyes," he shifted his weight to one foot while studying her face, "well, no matter the reason, the door is obviously jammed."

"I…" before Sorrow could respond, the boy turned and disappeared down a shadowy row of bookshelves, leaving her with only his first name and a useless, brass key.

* * *

How irritating. Why did the wretched ghost always torment her?

The boy was right; Peeves was a nuisance. What's the purpose of a poltergeist, anyway? Nothing. That's what.

The library was vast, and the Restricted Section was located on the opposite wall from the librarian's desk. She never understood why that was. It would have made more sense to station the privileged books somewhere closer to the librarian. That way, it would cut down on troublemakers and save students the hassle of trekking across the world whenever an assignment was approaching.

It was dark and musty. The only flickers of light were stolen from oversized torches adorning the walls and the ends of bookshelves. Small, melted candles were placed atop tables located between rows. Sorrow was carrying a torch lamp, but it offered more smoke than candlelight.

The stone floor was decked with ornamental rugs; many were mismatched and holey and in desperate need for repair. Some parts of the floor remained completely bare, reminding passers-by to blanket it once the clatter of footsteps echoed off the walls.

Oddly, windows were sparse at this end of the library. It was as if the gloom would dissuade students from venturing past the history and transfiguration sections. All the common and "acceptable" books were placed near the entrance where sunshine or starlight could flow inside. She supposed the dark upset most students, but certainly not all of them. It wasn't fair; dim light was damaging to the eyes.

As she continued to walk the narrow hallway toward the front desk, her mind began to wander beyond the décor of the library.

Who was that boy? Something about him disturbed her; she wasn't sure what it was, but the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her gave her chills. It had been as if he were there conversing, yet not; like it had all been an illusion. She couldn't help but feel she'd interrupted something, as if _she_ had been the irritant and not Peeves.

She glanced up; she was nearing the desk. The figure sitting behind it wasn't the librarian Mrs. Tallus, but was John Shoppoff the library aid.

"Sorrow, did you find what you were looking for?" he asked when he noticed her returning.

"No, the door is jammed."

"What? How'd that happen?"

"Peeves."

"Oh, come on! You've got to be kidding? I just fixed that door yesterday from the last time he tore into it!"

Sorrow rested her elbow on the desk and dropped a key into a jar before asking, "John, I've been meaning to ask, where is the old bat?"

"Ah, Professor Dippet gave Tallus a couple month's leave. She contracted Muldrills. It's great! I get to stay throughout the summer."

"Impossible. No student is allowed to stay throughout the summer."

"I've already gotten permission from my parents," he grinned.

"This summer?" Sorrow leaned against the desk, moving closer toward the boy, "Who could possibly ask for help in a deserted library?"

She raised a sharp eyebrow, "Peeves?"

John gave her an exasperated look mixed with irritation. Peeves was his sore spot. She couldn't blame him. Second only to herself, John was a prime target for the ghost.

After the boy recovered from the thought of being alone with the poltergeist all summer, he looked at Sorrow and asked, "How do you think we get this place back into working order after you bookworms have your way with it?"

"'You bookworms?' Last I checked _you_ are one of _us_."

She lowered her feet onto the floor and looked in the direction of the blocked door. She could barely see it, it was so far away and the lighting so poor. Shadows danced across the engrained wood, giving the illusion it was pulsing with life.

"Aren't you going to be lonely?" she asked, finally.

"Nah, I can head to Hogsmeade anytime I like. Dippet is giving me a summer pass; I don't even have to ask permission," he stopped and fumbled with something on his desk before adding, "Well, y'know, within reasonable hours."

"I'd expect nothing less," she bit her lip and continued, "Do you know the Slytherin who hangs out here every day? I think his name is Tom." She didn't think; she knew.

"Uh, know him? No, but I know who you're talking about. The fourth year, Tom Riddle. He comes in everyday, but never speaks with anyone; he just heads toward the back and disappears until evening."

Tom Riddle. Why couldn't he have told her that himself? They were the same age; she had suspected as much. He had looked as though he were in the awkward phase between boy and man, his body still unsure which to settle on.

"Have you noticed anything…strange about him?" she asked.

"Strange? The kid's a genius; that kind is always strange," he laughed.

"Genius?" It didn't surprise her; teenagers didn't usually spend their day at a table barricaded with books like Tom.

"Yep, Grade A genius. Like a mad sorcerer kinda deal."

"I got the same impression," she laughed.

It was superficial. She wished it were genuine, but meeting Tom – alone – made it less amusing.

"Wouldn't hurt him to get some sun, is all I'm sayin'."

Sorrow cleared her throat.

The boy fidgeted and said, "Aw, come on, you're a lovely,_ healthy_ pale. He's just…sick lookin'."

"Yes," she straightened her back and turned to face the hallway.

"I need that book, John."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya," he stood up with a sigh and grabbed his wand.

"I still don't understand why Dippet puts up with him," he complained.

"Maybe there isn't enough protest. Peeves seems to favor our misery over all the other hundreds of students' at Hogwarts."

"Heh! Suppose you're right."

The two had reached the door when they were reminiscing about having won the House Cup the year prior. Night had fallen, causing the few windows that hung on the walls to appear black, and still the place didn't seem as depressing as before.

The area was darker, but somehow John gave Sorrow a sense of security. The door was still shut and cold and the lighting was almost nonexistent. None of it fazed him; he kept laughing and joking, only demanding her participation in return. She didn't mind.

He was a sixth year Ravenclaw; both athletic and academic, but not overly attractive. However, his personality more than made up for it – as most girls readily agreed. He was well-known around the castle as a first-class flirt, seeing how he wasn't discriminatory with whom he shared his affections. But once again, it didn't matter to Sorrow. All she needed was the door to open so she could retrieve the book and head toward the bed chambers.

John removed his wand from his robes and approached the door. He passed a hand over the wood, admiring the craftsmanship, "It really is a handsome door, isn't it? A bit chilly, though."

He retreated a few steps, "Feel it. It's freezing!"

"I've already felt it."

It was indeed cold. Weren't all forgotten objects? The only thing that heated inanimate articles was fire or something organic. Since the door to the Restricted Section was left in shadows and wasn't touched often, the cold was to be expected.

"It's like there's something frozen on the other side. Maybe that's what's blocked your door, Row."

"Maybe," she agreed.

She walked toward a table and sat her shoulder pack upon the surface, aware not to knock over the lit candle in the center. It amazed her that it was still glowing; the stick had collapsed nearly flat onto the wood. There was a puddle of liquid wax surrounding the tiny wick; it was only a matter of time before the flame was snuffed. Something about the image depressed her. The candle had been tossed atop of the table – lit and forgotten – left to melt alone. She wanted to blow it out, to preserve its life a little longer, but that would be foolish. She had to be able to see if she was going to find the book. Light was needed.

"Man, it really is cold…I kinda don't want to open it," John gave her a sheepish grin.

Sorrow shifted in her seat, "Fine. I'll do it. Give me permission. I would have done it from the very beginning, but Tom saw me struggling with the door. I couldn't afford being expelled."

"You? Expelled? Hardly," he touched the door again.

"Besides, you already had permission to view the books. You would've been unlocking the door with a different method, is all."

"I couldn't take that risk, John. Not this far into the game."

"Hate to break it to ya, but you aren't that far into the game. You're a fourth year; you still gotta ways to go, Kid."

"Fifth after this summer. And I _am_ far. I'm expecting early graduation at the end of my sixth year."

John laughed, "You can expect all day long; doesn't mean it'll happen. In the whole history of Hogwarts, there have been seven, early graduations."

Sorrow was standing in front of the door, wand raised, "I don't need a history lesson; especially from someone such as yourself. May I have permission or not?"

"Sit your pale bottom down. I can do it myself," he barked.

"By all means," she bowed before him in an exaggeratedly low fashion then walked back toward the table.

John paced in front of the door, occasionally stopping to feel it. He would then either scratch his head or sigh.

Sorrow sat crossed legged on a stool, either growling or chuckling in response.

"Will you open the damn door!" she yelled, finally.

"Fine! But if I get covered with freezing fish guts or something, you're doing my assignments for the rest of the year."

"No, I will not. This is your job as a librarian's aid. Now hurry up and do it! I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He then closed his eyes and with the flick of his wand spoke the magic word, "Alohomora!"

The door's latch clicked and the two students looked from one another to the closed door and back again.

"See? You got bent out of shape over nothing," she smiled.

The boy grabbed and turned the handle, "Yeah, well, Peeves is unpredictable. I s'pose he derives as much pleasure from watching us squirm in anticipation as he does from really pranking us."

"You're right; we're equally miserable either way."

John nodded and opened the door. A sharp, long creak echoed around them.

He peeked inside.

"All clear," he said without turning toward her.

Suddenly, he grabbed his face and started screaming. It was a guttural scream; one that made Sorrow flinch and cover her ears from pain.

She looked frantically back and forth between the boy and the door, but saw nothing.

"Stop! This isn't funny! I saw you open it; nothing came out."

He stumbled backward onto the table, breaking it and clawing at his face, "Get it off! Get it off!"

"Get what off, John? John! I don't see anything!"

She fell to her knees inches away, grabbing his arms. She tried to subdue him, to make him stop thrashing, but he was too strong.

"Move your hands, John. Move them! Stop fighting! Let me see."

"IT'S BURNING!"

"My wand…where's my wand!" She yelled.

She fumbled in her pockets, but couldn't find it. Where was it? She always carried it with her. Wait! She removed it when she was going to open the door. She must have dropped it when he startled her.

She crawled on the ground, searching for the thin wood. It was too dark to see anything; the candle had been crushed when he fell on the table.

"SORROW! HELP!"

"I can't find my wand," she whispered.

She turned back toward his convulsing body, "I'm going to get help."

She moved closer, "John! Do you hear me? I'm going to get help!"

"Make it stop!" he yelled.

She tripped over something in her hurry, knocking over a row of books.

Turning back to where she could hear him flailing, she yelled, "I can't help without magic. I'll come back with someone."

It was dark. The flickering candles were more ridiculous than ever, and every time she tried to move quickly she bumped into something. It was as if the room was growing darker and larger. Whenever she took a step, she didn't know if it was in the right direction or if John was even stable. Something had attacked him. Something_ was_ attacking him. Something was killing him. She had to move fast if he had any hope of surviving.

The light in the gigantic room was fading. Sorrow looked over her shoulder and noticed the candles were extinguished.

All was silent.

Up ahead, flames still danced across the walls.

What was going on? She couldn't turn back to help him; she didn't have a wand.

Should she continue forward? What made her think that whatever attacked John wasn't lying in wait around the corner?

Movement from a row of bookshelves caught her eye. She turned, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever or whoever it had been.

"Hello?" she called out.

Suddenly, a candle on the nearest table blew out. Then another candle, and another, and another, until finally they were all extinguished. The torches went next.

She was left standing in darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She wasn't alone.

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**End Notes: **_More chapters to come, and in a much timelier fashion._

_Tell me what you thought of this chapter. This is your chance to impress upon the areas I can improve or touch on the areas I should discard. Remember, this story should entertain YOU. If it doesn't, I've failed as a writer._

_Feedback is crucial for growth, so please write a good review or a bad review; all I ask is that you write an** honest** review. _

_It will be dearly appreciated._


	3. Touch of Hazel

**Author's Notes:**_ Here's the latest installment from Tom's point of view!_

_Enjoy!_

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Chapter 3: Touch of Hazel

Tom finished applying the ectoplasm to the brass.

The keyhole was long and narrow. To line the alloy with the substance, he resorted to a fine-tipped artist's brush. Avery had fetched the tool from the Crafts Hall; it had been a less-than- ideal situation when Tom realized Brumble had forgotten the materials. He would punish the imbecile later. For now, he needed to focus on setting the constituent for the potion.

When smeared onto the metal, the ecto sizzled and released a puff of green smoke. It smelled slightly of rotten eggs and the boy's washroom.

_Perfect._

He leaned his cheek against the door. It was cool and growing colder by the second.

He smiled.

"Did it work?" Brumble asked.

All of his admirers knew their place. They knew when to speak and when to remain silent. They knew when their services were required and – most importantly, they understood the significance of silence when they were _not_ required.

All except for one.

"I'm unsure," Tom said, straightening his posture and turning his attention toward his inquirer.

He was a short boy, which did nothing to help his obesity. Red hair clustered in tight curls around a freckled face. The spot were not reserved for his cheeks in a cute, endearing manner; instead, they painted his entire skin with unpleasant blotches similar to a plague victim.

He was unfortunate looking, the type of child who suffered from incessant bullying and blackmail. He was weak and dimwitted and had low self-esteem. Brumble could handle menial jobs, but lacked the finesse and brainpower to tackle important tasks. After tonight's forgetfulness, he doubted the boy could manage even that.

"Come," Tom whispered.

Brumble fidgeted, daring to glance at the older students around him.

A lean fellow returned his gaze and cocked a cruel eyebrow. Another smiled. The rest seemed similarly nervous, refusing to look in his direction.

The third year swallowed and walked forward.

"Yes?" he asked. He stared downward, fixated on his scuffed shoes.

"Whom do you address?" Tom asked, his eyes narrow and sharp.

"Forgive me. I address you, My Lord."

"Look through the keyhole and tell me if you see it."

"See _what_…My Lord?" Brumble finished quickly, taking heed not to forget the title again.

Tom's eyes met the boy's, but seemed to look beyond them. They were unnaturally emotionless, and that frightened Brumble.

"Look through the keyhole and tell me if you see it," he repeated, this time a noticeable edge to his smooth voice.

Brumble knelt in front of the door until his eyes were level with the keyhole.

"Avery," Tom nodded toward the lean boy.

As if cued in, the boy named Avery whispered a complicated spell. Brumble was unaware of what it meant, but the others who were present seemed to understand the meaning of the words.

A few students' eyes widened.

A girl whispered something about a silencing spell to a confused boy.

"I can't see anything," Brumble stuttered, "My Lord."

"Oh?"

"Perhaps if I knew what I was looking for?" he asked.

"You needn't worry with details, Butterball, it's quite noticeable."

Brumble flinched at the insult. It was not as if he wasn't used to name-calling, especially about his weight, but he had thought – he had _hoped_ that joining this club, this…whatever the hell it was, would have put an end to the tormenting. That wasn't the result at all. It was far worse now than it had ever been. Now, it extended beyond name-calling and there was no way out of this brotherhood, no escape. He had seen what _Tom_ had done to the other members who tried to leave. He knew it would be worse for him because he was fat and he was stupid and there was no way he could outsmart the others. And they knew it.

Brumble swallowed.

"It? What is _it_, My Lord?" he asked again, but this time the words barely escaped his mouth before his eye started burning.

"My eye! It's burning!" he screamed, frantically rubbing his face, tears streaming down his apricot cheeks.

"That," Tom smiled.

"Well, it worked, Brumble," Avery laughed.

"I never doubted it had," Tom replied.

He sent them away. No need to appear suspicious. Only he and Dianthus were needed, now.

The two of them shuffled between book shelves, occasionally stopping to pull forth books.

The girl reeked of perfume. It was amazing how thick her makeup became and how sweet her smell wafted past whenever she anticipated his company. Teenage girls were too easily attracted. Nevertheless, she understood plans well enough, and took orders gracefully – sometimes a little too enthusiastically, but that was beside the point. Best of all, she asked few questions.

If he must, he could ignore a little perfume.

"Must we go over it again?" he asked without tearing his gaze from the pages of a tattered book.

"Oh, no! I gotcha, boss," she winked, her blonde hair shimmering with the nod of her head.

"Then what are you waiting for? Lure him to the door."

She blanched momentarily only to return to her rosy hue, "Right. Sorry, My Lord."

"Why are you always such a bastard!" a female voice interrupted, followed by a loud clank of metal.

Tom jerked his attention away from the book he was reading.

He looked at Dianthus then toward the direction of the tantrum.

"No!" he hissed.

Dianthus's eyes widened, "this isn't good."

"There's no way this can be good," he growled, shooting her a silent warning with his eyes.

Dianthus didn't say another word.

He glided silently past the column of books. Someone was trying to open the door, someone who wasn't supposed to be there.

It was a girl. He was unable to make out her appearance or identity because her back was toward him.

What he could see appeared average.

She had dark, long hair and wore the typical, black robes of a Hogwart's student. She was struggling against the door, a pale hand gripping the brass handle, a shoulder digging into the wood. She was tiny, fighting a losing battle, and wasn't happy about it.

He frowned, wondering if he should disorient her then decided against it. Too many peculiar ailments in the hospital wing would surely attract attention. She must have received permission to view the books in the Restricted Section; injuring her in the dark corner of the library would alert John, only to cause suspicion.

He would have to skip a few steps of the plan. That annoyed him greatly.

"Does this happen often?" he asked.

The girl flinched in surprise then stiffened and replied, "more often than not."

His eyes narrowed. This was already becoming tiresome. His hand gripped the wand inside his front, robe pocket.

"Odd," he said, finally.

The girl's grip on the handle tightened, turning her knuckles white, "is it?"

She was becoming irritated. Perhaps this didn't have to be boring after all.

He smiled, taking his time with the next word, "_very."_

She tensed more, "yes, well, it's likely that the librarian recently requested these doors become especially bothersome for students. It's a deterrent for the Restricted Section."

He caught himself before he laughed.

She pushed the hair away from her eyes then turned to face him. Suddenly he recognized her. She was the Ravenclaw ever-present in the library. How could he forget about her! He should have known she would be here.

"Oh, really?" he placated.

He noticed there wasn't a need. She was lost in thought, apparently as surprised to see him as he was of her. Her baby blues roamed over his face, only to linger on his tie. Funny, she looked almost happy to see him.

How _sweet._

"Slytherin," he replied, "Occasionally, you can spot us ambling about. Sometimes even in the library."

That seemed to do it; she snapped back to reality.

"Yes, I think I've seen you before. Here, in the library, I mean."

_Good memory; you only ogled daily._

"Of course you have."

"I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."

"Tom."

"Just, 'Tom?'"

_No, it's not "just Tom," you wretched pest!_

"You haven't told me _your_ name. I'm curious; what is it?" he purred.

Her cheeks flushed.

Sparkling eyes met his hazel orbs, "Sorrow Beval."

_Ozro Beval's daughter? She's a Ministry brat? _

"Interesting," he hadn't meant to say it allowed, but it didn't matter now that he had.

Definitely couldn't injure or disorient this one. Perhaps he didn't need to. This could work to his advantage.

"I saw Peeves floating out of the wall from the Restricted Section," he smiled, "it happened a few moments before you began struggling with the door. Perhaps he's to blame?"

She wilted, "Maybe so…"

Something about her was peculiar, not quite right. Her pretty face looked tired and sad. It was as if she were a fine piece of porcelain laced with cracks.

She was the shattering type.

Daddy's little girl could be broken.

_How intriguing._

"I'd blame your frail frame, but given I saw the nuisance escaping with my own eyes," he shifted his weight to one foot while affronting her, "well, no matter the reason, the door is obviously jammed."

Without looking back into those fragile eyes, he left. He and Dianthus had a long night ahead of them. They needn't worry; the mission would be easily accomplished, and the outcome the same:

John would fall.

* * *

**End Notes: **_I'd love nothing more than for you to write a review telling me your thoughts on this portrayal and chapter. _


	4. Well Wishers and Prats

**Author's Notes:**_ A recovery chapter from Sorrow's PoV._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 4: Well-Wishers and Prats

Sorrow's eyes opened.

The light in the room was painfully bright. She squinted and moaned then shut them.

Where was she?

She could hear the faint chattering of birds. She could feel a slight tickle on her face and arms. It grew stronger then fainter then stronger again until finally she decided the sensation was a breeze.

Was she outside?

Humming could be heard from a distance; it grew louder until the song was uncomfortably close.

"Marvelous! You're awake!"

Not only did the bright light hurt her eyes, but apparently loud voices were just as abrasive to her ears.

"What?" Sorrow whispered. Her voice was strained and scratchy. As soon as she asked the question, she had to fight the urge to cough.

Something wasn't right.

"Can you see, dear? Is the light too bright? Here, I'll draw the curtains."

The sound of squeaking shoes was followed by a heavy sliding noise. It sounded like fabric scraping against metal.

"There, sweetie, try opening your eyes, now."

She did as instructed.

The light was much dimmer and the breeze was gone. She was lying in a fluffy bed surrounded by other, identical fluffy beds. The room was large and sterile and smelled faintly of cleaning solution. A plump nurse was hovering above her with wide, purple eyes.

Sorrow was in the Hospital Wing.

"What am I doing here," she asked, finally.

The nurse smiled and patted her head, "you had an accident in the library."

"What?"

"Do you remember?"

"No…l," she coughed, "no, I don't remember."

The woman looked disappointed.

That irritated Sorrow.

"What happened?" this time the question sounded more demanding than she intended, but seeing how she had lost her memory and was suffering from a splitting headache, she couldn't care less if she insulted the woman.

Her rudeness didn't seem to faze the nurse; Sorrow guessed the woman must have been used to cranky behavior. No one woke in a pleasant mood when they were injured...did they?

"Peeves happened."

She considered this information for a moment. Long ago she'd discovered asking questions at the end of a discussion was more successful – and certainly less annoying – than blurting each one separately.

She waited patiently.

The plump woman hesitated then continued, her jowls wriggling with each word, "Peeves's ectoplasm was found in the library. We're unclear what happened exactly, but we do know his excretion combined with brass. If you aren't aware, that is a _very_ deadly combination. Never toy with a ghost's ectoplasm around metal!"

Had she been toying with a ghost's ectoplasm?

"I can't tell you how many children I've had to reprimand for flinging the substance around like snowballs. It's nothing to be taken lightly! One moment their snowball warriors, the next moment someone splatters a door handle and it's, 'My finger's blown off!'"

Now Sorrow was completely confused.

"But I know not to play with ectoplasm," she blurted.

"Do you? Most kids don't know that…" the nurse looked surprised.

"Yes, I know not to touch the substance unless I'm wearing gloves, and I know not to combine it with alloy unless I want a small explosion of hot gas or a buildup of pressure. I'm even aware that trace amounts of ecto is used in gnome repellant because of its pickled scent. They find it appalling. I find it nice, actually, but then again I suppose it's an acquired smell…" she was rambling.

"I take it you're a Ravenclaw." It was more of a statement than a question. She wasn't sure if she should be offended or proud at being place in the correct house. The nurse, however, looked ruffled.

_Insult._

"Yes."

"This isn't good," the woman finished.

"Excuse me?"

"If you weren't playing with ecto, how is it that you inhaled the burnt fumes?"

"I inhaled fumes?"

"It was enough to render you unconscious for three days. It also seems to have blurred your memory."

Sorrow was speechless. She'd been unconscious…because of ectoplasm poisoning?

"Count your lucky stars you didn't end up like John."

"John? What happened to John?"

"He…he suffered chemical burns to the face and neck. St. Mungo's Hospital is caring for him. I'm not equipped to handle extreme cases..." her voice trailed off. Clearly whatever had happened was bad.

_Poor John._

"Did you ask him what happened? Maybe he remembers." Sorrow asked.

"Not possible. He's still unconscious."

"Oh, yes…that makes sense."

"Is he going to be all right?" she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"He's recovering, but I think it's safe to say he won't be seen around Hogwarts for his summer duties. Poor child probably wouldn't even want to set foot in the library again."

Sorrow stared at the woman as she walked toward a linen cabinet.

"The library is no place for students at night, especially young girls; most have gone to bed. If it hadn't been for Tom and Dianthus, we would never have known you two were injured," the nurse began placing sheets on an adjacent bed.

_Tom? _

_Tom!_

"I remember!" Sorrow exclaimed. Her sudden excitement caused her head to throb.

"Do you, now?" the nurse's eyebrow rose in a suggestive manner, "Yes, I'd imagine that boy would spark anyone's memory. Isn't he something? Polite, smart, good-looking, and now your personal hero," she winked.

"Don't forget Dianthus," Sorrow corrected.

"She's a snooty little thing. I wouldn't doubt she tagged along to be by the boy's side. I got the impression she didn't care much for your wellbeing."

"I've never met her…"

"She's a typical Slytherin. Forgive me if that offends you, but I'm sure you understand what that statement implies," she finished tucking the last corner of the bed sheet onto the mattress, "Now, what is it that you've remember?"

This woman was starting to annoy Sorrow with all the flippant comments about houses.

She frowned, "Peeves had been in the Restricted Section; I'm guessing to prevent me from getting my book. He always torments me. I'm a personal favorite of his," her jaw clenched in frustration before she continued, "He jammed the door. I had to ask for John's help in unlocking it. When we finally broke it open, something attacked him. I'm aware now that it was steam, but when it was happening, I was so frightened that I dropped and lost my wand. I left to find help."

"Then what happened, dear?"

"I can't remember; it's blank after that."

"You need to rest."

The woman was right; their short conversation had drained all of her energy. How was that possible after three days of sleep?

"I'm sorry; I didn't ask your name."

"Mrs. Demzai, dear. Shall I send for brunch? I'm sure you're famished!"

"I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense! Of course you are!"

What do ya know, it didn't matter how she answered; Mrs. Demzai was going to fetch brunch either way. Sorrow had the feeling she might be force-fed, too.

Already she wished she was sitting in the Ravenclaw common room.

"Would you like to look at the menu or would you prefer to be surprised?" Demzai asked.

"Oh, I love surprises."

Why should she participate? She wasn't going to eat.

She shifted in bed, turning away from the fat nurse. Her eyes rested on the end table next to the bed. On it sat a vase of dead roses, a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, an edition of _How to Avoid Accidents when Accidents Won't Avoid You _(Oh, how funny), a pile of get-well cards, a bundle of quills taped to a piece of newspaper (odd), and a long parcel.

Naturally, the package deserved attention first. After all, she knew the contents of the rest of the presents.

Her ribcage ached when she leaned across the bed to pick it up. The fumes must have burned her lungs.

_Stupid Peeves!_

Atop the box in neat handwriting was written, _"Get well – Tom"_

She had to admit he beat her in calligraphy; _her_ script looked like chicken scratch. She wasn't sure why, but the realization made her blush with embarrassment.

She tore the parcel open.

There, amid the slivers of paper and packing tissue, rested her wand.

* * *

**End Notes:** _I thought it would be appropriate for Tom to be demanding even in a get-well card (hence its succinct nature and the omission of the hyphen; he's not asking...he's telling)! What a rascal :)_

_Reviews are craved!_


	5. Crying Game

**Author's Notes:**_ This short chapter includes an angry Tom. The next chapter will be from Tom's PoV._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Crying Game**

"Did you give her a gift?" Tom asked.

"Yes, but I don't understand why you wanted me to," she frowned.

They were walking down a deserted corridor. Both of them had important matters to discuss and potions class to attend. It was a business meeting on the go.

"You aren't required to _think," _his thin lips curled.

He stopped. His hand gripped her arm.

"The _only _quality I require is obedience, everything else is needless."

Her green eyes widened.

"Forgive me."

"What was it you gave?"

Suddenly Dianthus realized how shoddy her gift had been. Well, she hadn't _just_ realized. The gift had been meager on purpose; after all Raven-nerd had foiled his plan - _his _brilliant plan. To top things off, the brat had stolen _her_ part in it! But now, looking into her Master's expectant eyes, she was painfully aware how insulting the gift might seem to him.

"Quills and the weekly newspaper…"

Tom didn't move. His lips flattened into a hard line of contemplation while the fingers imprisoning her arm tightened.

"'Quills and the weekly newspaper'," it was obvious from the lack of inflection in his voice that he wasn't asking a question.

"Explain," he whispered.

Dianthus fidgeted, "Well, I mean, the girl's a Ravenclaw so she's gotta be a bibliophile, right? I thought she'd appreciate quills for her makeup work, and a copy of this week's newspaper to catch up on current events. Ya know, for the week she was comatose…"

He moved closer, "seeing as how you know so very much, why don't you explain to me how the girl might interpret such a gift?"

She could feel his breath on her skin. It was warm and sweet. She'd dreamed of being this close to him, of feeling his body against hers, but right now she was completely terrified.

"I…I don't know."

"No? How surprising!" His eyes were livid and her arm was stinging.

Dianthus looked down; she was bleeding. Her bare, tan arm was peeping out of a short sleeved shirt and Tom's nails where digging into her skin.

"I'm not good with gifts!" she squeaked.

"Not good with gifts? Or is it you _didn't_ _care_ what you gave?" he was two inches from her face.

Her arm was aching; she wanted to cry.

"A gift as pathetic as yours screams insincerity. I will not allow your petty jealousy to expose what really happened that night."

"I'm sorry…I didn't realize how reckless it was," she whimpered, her eyes welling with tears while her arm trickled blood.

"Of course you didn't," he breathed.

His hold loosened.

Dianthus quivered then blinked. She hadn't noticed until now that Tom had her pinned against the stone wall. She looked down each end of the hallway. They were alone. Under any other circumstance she would have relished his attention, but now she wanted nothing more than to run away screaming.

"We're even later for class," he noted, looking at his watch.

Tom had regained his composure, though remained in Dianthus's personal space.

"Your sister is a first year?" he asked.

Dianthus swallowed hard, "yes."

"Which house?"

"She was sorted into Slytherin."

He smiled.

She shivered.

"Only the best for Slytherin," he uttered.

She tried to move, to push herself from the wall. He stopped her by placing a gentle hand on each shoulder.

"What is her name, Dianthus?"

"Noein," she sobbed.

He grinned again. It grew more vicious each time it flickered across his face. The expression was sweet and the face was handsome, but the eyes concealed nothing. They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much and yet not nearly enough. They were hungry and insatiable, and in that she was horrified.

He wore a mask, but for how much longer, she couldn't know. Darkness had begun to fracture the disguise, and for the first time, Dianthus saw Tom for what he truly was - a monster.

"Such a pretty name. Tell me, is Noein as lovely as you are?" His voice was a soothing purr, but Dianthus knew there was nothing soothing about this boy.

Her arm was pounding faster with the acceleration of her pulse once she realized the implication of his words. She choked back tears.

"Don't hurt her! Please! I won't tell anyone about our discussion. It was my fault; I was so very stupid. I deserved much more than I got," she sucked in a breath, "you know I won't tell!"

"Do I?" he asked, his lips brushing her cheek with the whisper.

His long finger stroked her wound in a painful, circular motion. It took every broken piece of strength she had not to scream.

"We've concluded it's you who knows everything, Dianthus," he hissed.

"I know nothing!" she croaked.

"Oh, well, if that's the case," he released her shoulders, "we have nothing more to discuss."

She stood, trembling against the wall, "no, nothing more, My Lord."

He examined his finger nails in the dim light then wiped them on her shirt.

"Skip today's class; you're a mess," he glanced down the hallway to confirm they were still alone, "I'll take notes."

Dianthus stared at him unbelievingly. Was this the same boy who moments ago had her pinned to the wall bleeding?

He laughed as if he had heard her thoughts, "I wouldn't want you to fall behind."

She blinked, tears streaming down her chapped cheeks.

"Oh, and one more thing, Dianthus…"

She looked at him dolefully.

He moved closer, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers, "Tell Noein I said hello."

* * *

**End Notes:** _Some of you might be skeptical about Tom's leniency towards Dianthus, but I think the chastisement was perfect. After all, Tom still attends Hogwarts; rules apply to even him. He can't go around casting Avada Kedavra at every ditsy follower. _

_Even if he could, I have a feeling Tom wouldn't have killed Dianthus. He is a selfish individual; as long as she submits, repents, and - most importantly - makes herself useful, he'll forgive her mistake. He's also aware that threats are more potent than physical violence. He's a pretty efficient guy. Nothing pleases him more than controlling his minions completely with the least amount of force. I think he's achieved this maneuver with Dianthus now that he's acquired Noein's identity. _

_It was a short chapter, I know, but I wanted to get something out before I had to start studying for an exam. Next chapter will be from Tom's PoV, and it will be much longer. Hopefully, it will start answering some of the questions you guys are dying to know ;)_


	6. Looming Disturbance

**Author's Notes:** _Tom's PoV. Warning for language and adult themes._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 6: Looming Disturbance**

"Riddle, I see you've decided to grace us with your presence."

Professor Slughorn was bent over a cauldron. He was dribbling purple ooze into the concoction boiling inside while iridescent bubbles hovered above the pot, riding waves of steam before popping abruptly. One of the soapy orbs had floated away from the brewing potion, and landed on Tom's nose before splattering his face with sticky droplets.

"Professor, please excuse my tardiness; a young lady bumped into me on the way to class. I thought it might be rude to leave without helping her gather the objects she'd dropped," he lowered his gaze to the floor, feigning his best empathetic expression.

It wasn't an emotion easily mustered; he could only guess if he was portraying it accurately, but seeing as how most teachers believed him, he was confident enough to presume he was a talented actor.

"Always the good ol' chap aren't you, Tom?" Slughorn beamed while patting his belly. He noticed this happen whenever the Potions Master was particularly impressed.

"I remember how difficult it was to be a young student here at Hogwarts," he replied, furrowing his brow then raising his chin, "As a fourth year, I feel it's my duty to look after them."

"I wish older students felt the same as you do, my boy. Seventh Years could learn a thing or two."

"It's yet my honor to teach, Professor, though one day I hope to have the privilege of sharing knowledge with my own pupils," with any other instructor, this would have been excessive, but Slughorn had always enjoyed his goodie-two-shoes with an extra heap of brownnosing.

With dirty looks flashed about, Tom noticed the rest of the class didn't appreciate the flattery.

He took his seat between Avery and Alphard Black.

"Where's Dianthus?" Avery whispered.

Tom removed his potions book from his bag then sat it on the wooden desk before him.

He leaned toward the boy before softly replying, "likely sobbing into her pillow or warning her sister not to lounge in the common room. Probably both."

Avery raised a questioning eyebrow, but knew their current location was hardly the place to inquire further.

"I didn't know she had a sister," he mumbled while inking his quill.

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not…" Avery began scribbling on the parchment in front of him.

"I loathe Hufflepuffs!" Alphard sneered to no one and everyone at once.

Neighboring Hufflepuffs glared at the Slytherin boy. A few mumbled something under their breath. Tom would have sworn one girl had whispered, "I heard they're cold-blooded like snakes and have to sleep with a heat lamp because the dungeons are so frigid."

"Everyone hates Hufflepuffs," Tom said, "even other Hufflepuffs. They're leftovers, after all."

It had been a bit quieter than Alphard's statement, but it was loud enough for the gossiping girl to take notice. Her face turned crimson before her body wilted on her seat.

He couldn't help but smile; girls were so easily hurt.

Avery looked up from his parchment to cock his head in Alphard's direction, "Wait, what? What's happened now, Alph?"

"That guy, do you see him over there?"

"The black haired one?"

"Yes, the one that looks like a badger," Alphard grumbled.

Now Tom looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the Hufflepuff.

"What about him?" Avery asked.

"Pris is attached to him."

"_That's_ the guy Priscilla fancies? Oh, mate, how could you have lost out to him!" Avery laughed loudly and caught the attention of Professor Slughorn.

The teacher jerked his head away from the fumes of the cauldron. His face was sweating profusely and his eyes were bloodshot, "boys, this isn't the time for idle gossip! Have you completed your chart of elemental properties?"

"No, sir," Tom answered.

"Then I suggest you three get to it lest you're given dorm work!"

"Yes, sir" Avery said, pausing before continuing quickly, "I mean...no, sir, we don't want dorm work, but 'yes, sir' we will 'get on it'."

Tom shook his head. As smart as Avery was, he could still say the stupidest things.

"You really should learn to shut your big, fat mouth, Avery," Alphard growled.

"Hey, it's not my fault that Pris has a crush on a pussy Puff."

"Priscilla's ugly," Tom blurted.

Both boys' mouths dropped.

"Ugly? Are you serious? Her tits are huge!" Avery practically shrieked with excitement, but recovered his composer before Professor Slughorn could hear.

Tom inked his quill before continuing with his work, "I was editing her Transfiguration essay during peer review when I noticed she had tacked an 'e' at the end of potato and tomato. Now, why she was writing about root vegetables and fruits when the subject was to be about the evolution of Werefoxes, I cannot remember; however, since I was greatly amused by the misspellings, I began to wonder what else she struggled with. I asked her to name the capital of England. Her response was a flat 'E'."

"And? Mate, did you _not_ see her tits!"

"I'm afraid my laughter wouldn't permit."

"No one said she was smart," Alphard pointed.

Tom scribbled something on his parchment, "'not smart' would be a compliment. At times I wondered how she was able to buckle her shoe strap."

"Excuse me for being unable to grasp why that matters," Avery shook his head in disbelief.

"Can't she use Velcro if it's that big of a deal?" Alphard laughed.

"Not only is she stupid, but she's also a Gryffindor."

Both Slytherins fell silent. They knew how Tom felt about Gryffindors. Their brazen and obstinate nature made them undesirable and particularly difficult to recruit to his fellowship.

"There's nothing worse than a self-assured idiot," Tom finished.

Avery and Alphard remained quiet, neither one daring to change the subject.

Tom shifted in his seat then continued, "How could you not have noticed? The tie rests on her breasts."

This seemed to lighten the mood enough for the boys to regain their lightheartedness. The rest of the class period passed without a hitch.

The three boys completed their chart of elemental properties. No extra dorm work for them. They even managed to insult a few more Hufflepuffs on their way out of class. Luckily for the Puffs, Slytherins were scheduled alongside Ravenclaws for Potions next term.

"I'm gonna miss them," Avery smiled while exiting the classroom.

"I think we might have them for Herbology next year," Alphard winked.

"I can't wait! Hold on, who do we have for Potions then?"

"Ravenclaw," Tom answered.

"You think she's going to be there?"

"It depends on if she's in the same year."

"I hope not; I don't ever want to see her again," Avery frowned.

Alphard was digging in his pack while walking alongside the conversing boys. Occasionally, he would stop to dig deeper, then curse an obscenity before resuming his pace.

"Does she remember what happened?" he asked, this time successfully pulling a Remembrall from a side pocket of the book bag.

"She might. If she does, it's likely she doesn't understand what it is she saw. I'll know where we stand after I speak with her," Tom replied.

"And when exactly will that be?" Avery asked.

"Today. She's awake."

Avery chewed his lip in contemplation, "how will you know she's not lying?"

"Shut up, Avery. Alphard, give me that," he extended an arm with outstretched fingers.

As ordered, Alphard handed Tom the Remembrall, "I still don't understand how this is going to help."

"Luckily for us, you're not the one in charge," Tom sneered.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. Riddle."

Tom flinched. He knew the voice well. It was the only voice that could set him on edge.

_Not now!_

He turned to face the visitor.

"Professor Dumbledore," he smiled, "have you been looking for me?"

"Indeed I have, Tom."

Sparkling blue eyes bore holes into his hazel orbs. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Sometimes Tom wondered if those glassy globes were made of ice or if the cold gaze was reserved only for him.

"Have I done something wrong?"

"The entire castle is abuzz with your daring rescue of Sorrow Beval and John Shoppoff, yet you doubt my intentions for seeking you."

Tom smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry; I'm simply confused as to why you're here."

"Is that so?"

Tom swallowed. His throat was becoming incredibly dry.

"To offer praise?"

Dumbledore chuckled. It had been nearly inaudible, perhaps impossible to detect if his crinkling eyes and vibrating chest hadn't given it away.

"Have you not received enough praise?"

"Forgive me, that's not what I meant, Professor," Tom blurted.

"I think we're both aware of what you meant, Tom, and certainly of your intentions."

Tom clasped his hands behind his back. They were slick with sweat.

He didn't say another word until Dumbledore continued, "When Sorrow was admitted to the Hospital Wing, her wand was missing from her robs. We searched the area of misfortune during the investigation, but never discovered the instrument's whereabouts. Three days later, Madam Demzai glimpsed Sorrow practicing charms with the wand in her hospital bed. Do you have any idea how the young lady obtained it?"

An innocent enough question if it hadn't have been asked by Dumbledore. Tom would have to be careful with how he answered.

Dumbledore was the only teacher who didn't trust him, and certainly the only teacher who saw through his blandishments. There was no use in showering the instructor with compliments or distractive talk about school assignments; it would simply alert the old man to dig deeper into his investigation.

Why was he being questioned? Hadn't he already recounted the incident to Headmaster Dippet? Dippet believed him wholeheartedly – as always. The headmaster had even suggested he apply for the librarian's aid during summer break, which had been Tom's plan all along. But, now, Dumbledore was suspicious because of a missing wand.

_Why?_

Because he was always suspicious! Ever since Tom had entered Hogwarts, Dumbledore shadowed him like a looming disturbance. It was unnerving and intrusive and he resented it completely. He had tried everything to shake the gaze of the transfiguration professor, but all of his efforts had ended in distrust.

He knew why. Yes, he knew why.

It had been the orphanage incident. In a moment of weakness he had exposed his true nature. It had been like a dream. Finally, someone had come with the promise of safety and security, the promise of education and of power. And with that person came an explanation – no, _confirmation_ of what Tom had suspected his entire life: he was different. He was going to be freed from the orphanage; freed from the grip of normalcy. Never again would he have to worry with finding a home before he was thrown on the streets or worry with suppressing the gift inside him. That's what it was, wasn't it? A gift? A gift only the worthy was given? It was a gift that set apart the ordinary from the magnificent. Tom wasn't ordinary. He _refused_ to believe he was ordinary even after the endless mornings he awoke in the orphanage and the countless times he was called by that filthy, muggle name.

He was different. He was wanted. He was _special_.

"Special" had been the word he had used those many years ago. And in his delight, Tom had confided in his savior. They were secrets best kept; it had been a mistake to divulge his feelings. He understood what a blunder it had been after those blue eyes turned glacial. Never again would it happen. Never again had it happened – but it had only taken once.

The memory made him tingle.

"I stumbled across her wand when I discovered John. I returned it one day ago," Tom said, finally.

"Why the delay?"

"I'm afraid there isn't an adequate reason. I simply forgot I had it in my possession. Because of exams and the questioning from Headmaster Dippet about the incident, I lost tack of time."

"I like to call it the accident," Dumbledore smiled.

Tom squeezed his hands together, almost shattering the Remembrall. His face, however, remained steady.

"It was unfortunate. How are they doing?" Tom asked.

"Miss Beval is well on the road to recovery. I'm afraid I cannot say the same for Mr. Shoppoff."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. Tom hated blue eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"There is just one matter which confuses me," Dumbledore paused before continuing, "Peeves is under investigation for the reckless handling of ectoplasm, but I cannot understand, after his fifteen year stay at the castle, why the poltergeist decided to learn a new trick."

"I wouldn't know, Professor."

It was best to keep answers short lest he offered too much insight into the _accident._

"No, I didn't expect you would. Even you, Tom, have your limits."

Tom's hands began to tremble. It was too much; he wanted to snatch the half-mooned spectacles from the old man's face and gouge those pretty eyes with the frames. He pushed the malicious urge behind his vision, regaining control.

"Every man has his limits, Professor."

Dumbledore smiled. It was a weary expression - one that made him look almost sad, "When you become a man, Tom, you will realize just how vast your limitations are."

Tom was speechless, which is precisely what Dumbledore had intended, he was certain of it.

"I'm sure the girl would appreciate a visit from the boy who rescued her."

Tom swallowed then forced a smile, "Yes, I'll stop by the infirmary after divinations."

"I'm sure Miss Beval has many questions," Dumbledore winked.

Spinning on his heels, the grey-haired teacher walked off, floating on the graceful strides.

Tom stood gawking in his wake, paralyzed by the silent warning.

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**End Notes: **_I wanted to portray the contrast between Harry's view of Dumbledore and Tom's view._

_It's quite different, and for good reason. While Dumbledore was a guardian angel for Harry, showing up at opportune moments and offering valuable advice, he was not so appreciated by baby boy Voldy._

_Dumbledore watched Tom, but not for the same reasons he watched Harry. Instead of mentoring him and providing a helpful hand, Dumbledore thwarted and intimidated Tom at every turn. I don't think it was wanted on Dumbledore's part. I believe everyday he wished Tom would change, and trust me, if anyone wanted to save him, it was Dumbledore. Nevertheless, he was forced to watch Tom fall deeper and deeper into darkness. If he couldn't protect Tom from himself, he could protect those around him. And that's exactly what Dumbledore did._

_Side Note: Velcro was created in 1941, and since I do not have Tom's exact date of birth (somewhere between 1926-1929), it is not out of the realm of possibility that Velcro was invented during his stay at Hogwarts._

_Also, I do not have the exact date of when Peeves began haunting Hogwarts Castle, but I decided to use him in my story to portray just how great Voldemort's reach extended. Almost everyone was used or abused by this guy. Even the Grey Lady, so why not Peeves?_

**_A big thanks to all my subscribers and reviewers! Your encouragement has made writing on FanFiction a wonderful experience!_**


	7. Snake Oil

**Author's Notes:** _Sorry for the delay; school keeps me on my toes. _

_I would like to take a moment to thank my anonymous reviewers. Since I cannot thank you personally in a private message, I'll thank you here! All reviews are precious and deserve to be acknowledged. And, of course, thanks to all of my signed reviewers and subscribers, too! :)_

_I'd also like to add that I still have not watched Half-Blood Price (gasp!), so you all can rest assured that my story is in no way inspired or influenced by its interpretation of Tom._

_Please don't forget to review after you read this chapter! :P_

_Sorrow's PoV. Warnings for language._

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Chapter 7: Snake Oil

She was bleeding. Again.

Scarlet beads swelled from her skin, growing at a steadily mesmerizing pace. They puckered like ruby kisses before rolling down her fingertips and splattering against fabric, spreading fire across the white sheets through geometric designs. Each drop created a slightly different shape. Most were perfectly round and flat like a period after a sentence. Others were runny and star-like, following the pattern of crisscrossed threads. Fewer droplets were smeared abominations, no rhyme or reason to them – failures in their own right.

Why Sorrow found her injuries more fascinating than her studies was beyond her, but the fact remained she was thoroughly involved with the gruesome scene and that was all that mattered.

Madam Demzai had been nothing but helpfully annoying during her shift. The woman liked to stay busy and often that resulted in a cosseted (and even more vexed) Sorrow. The nurse was an overprotective goose of her goslings with the way she crooned over patients. There were plenty of victims to her attention, but Sorrow was by far the main sufferer. Madam Demzai incessantly asked if she was all right, if she was hungry, if she was tired – and, of course, Sorrow's favorite: if she had remembered anything new about the accident.

No, she certainly hadn't! She had decided she probably never would, not that it mattered. Well, it didn't matter _anymore._ She had skimmed every memory, asked every visitor, probed every house-elf, and still came up short as to what had really happened that night. It was natural that _she_ would be suspicious; after all, she knew she would never touch ecto, but the way the nurse continued to question her lead Sorrow to wonder why they,_ the teachers,_ were doubtful. None of it made sense, and the more she thought about it, the more nonsensical it appeared. She wasn't used to not understanding. She didn't like it. Not one bit.

And so she was bleeding. Bleeding all over the ridiculously crisp linens. Bleeding and smiling and bleeding some more. She knew the cause for the blood; not so much for the smirk that was growing in size on her tired face. Had isolation morphed her into such a brat that ruining the nurse's pristine infirmary was fun?

Yep. She was having loads of fun.

Demzai's head would have spun if she had heard Sorrow's thoughts. How out of character for a Ravenclaw! In Demzai's book, students were mere caricatures of their Houses, not individuals who shared similar desires and interests – camaraderie if you will. Instead, Ravenclaws were bookworms lacking a sense of humor and panache; Gryffindors were obnoxious idealists; Hufflepuffs were naïve, talentless schmucks with a sweet streak; And Slytherins were narcissistic time bombs – the fashionable villains of their school with a penchant for schmucks.

Sorrow had certainly been enlightened during her stay in the infirmary; however, she couldn't say the same for Madam Demzai. She wondered which house the nurse had been sorted into then pitied whichever one that had suffered the woman's closed-mindedness. Despite her dislike for the Madam, she couldn't deny that Demzai had notable healing skills. Skills that required brains. She guessed that whichever bits she possessed were consumed with being a nurse, and so the rest suffered from neglect.

If you don't exercise the muscle, it turns to jelly.

Sorrow sucked in a breath, hissing through her teeth. Her hand was stinging now; the pain had finally caught up with the crimson. The sheet stretching across her lap was speckled red. She would have be more careful next time she attempted such a complicated spell. This was her third failed attempt at siphoning memories and her hand was smarting for it. She frowned while looking down at the empty pensive. Things weren't going her way at all. Sorrow took a deep breath and shut her eyes momentarily before deciding the pain was too much to tolerate and that calling Madam Demzai was her only option. She grabbed the pensive with her good hand then proceeded to hide it in the middle drawer of the dresser by the bed.

When she glanced back up, she noticed a boy lying catawampus across a neighboring cot…spying on her. He was very unattractive with goofy auburn hair and ruddy skin. His eyes, however, were stunning. They were the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. The white of one was red and inflamed; she assumed that's why it looked so vivid in color. She smiled at him while still leaning over her bed, "I'm bleeding."

"And that makes you happy?" there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm to his voice, just honest curiosity.

"Not overly, no," she smiled bigger while lying back down.

"Then why are you smiling?" He was looking more interested now.

"Because Madam Demzai's going to have to clean this up."

He squirmed in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. He decided lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling was more polite than retaining eye contact. "What's with that cup you had?"

"Just a sadistic tool I use to cut myself, didn't you notice?"

"I'm so sick of all of you," he whispered, his eyes still locked on the ceiling in a cold, hard stare.

All right, that was a bit melodramatic. Her hand was still stinging, but she dismissed the pain. What was with this boy? So she had been a little sarcastic; you'd have thought it had been the end of the world. "Is that why you're here? Because you're _sick _of us?"

"I hate you," he hissed. The words caught in his throat before he could add the last touch of venom to the inflection. It sounded more like a weighted confession than an insult, and in that Sorrow was taken aback.

She was about to yell at him when she suddenly noticed a tear rolling down his plump cheek. He was crying. She felt awful. Why did she always have to be such an arse? "I apologize, I…"

"Always thinking you're better than me?" he interrupted.

"I never said I was bet…"

"Always looking down on me because I'm fat and younger, because I'm a bit slower than most?" This time he turned his head to look into her eyes – her very confused eyes. "Oh, I try, though. I try _so_ hard. But it's never enough for you people, is it? You don't care that I can't sleep at night because I obsess about the morning and what it will bring. You don't care that I fear screwing up and even more about what you will do to me because of it. You don't care that I have feelings or that you squash them repeatedly with your condescending remarks!"

"Uh…" Sorrow's mouth fell open. What the hell was going on?

"No, I bet you enjoy it, don't you? You enjoy making others feel badly about themselves because it helps you feel better about your life. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Oh Supreme One, but you're life is just as pathetic as the rest of ours. Worse because you're too consumed with ascending that you can't even see it! Hah! Well, I see it…at least with one damn eye! And so does everyone else; they're just too frightened to tell you to your face. Don't you worry, though. One day they won't be scared of you," his face contorted into complete malice, "then _you'll_ be sorry." He hissed the last word, practically spitting on her in the process.

Oh! Okay, she got it; he was mad. No point in arguing with crazies. She didn't respond well to emotions and definitely not irrational ones. She continued to stare at him, though, not really knowing where to go with the conversation – or rant. She made a mental note to request a new bed…stationed far away from the deranged redhead. "I should get this looked at," she gestured with her bloody hand.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," the boy scoffed, turning over and pulling the blankets over his head. All that could be seen was a mound of cloth, and a rather large mound at that.

Strange. This was all too strange.

She surveyed her hand noting how it had stopped bleeding. It still ached, but the dried blood had become a sort of natural bandage shielding her tender flesh from the iciness of the air. She sighed before forcing herself up, her feet dangling from the mattress searching for her slippers. They were where she had last left them by the end table. Taupe and plush, they brought with them a welcomed warmth and comfort to the chilly room. She slipped her feet into the shoes then pushed herself from the bed. She really hated feeling like an invalid, but it had been the role she'd been cast and so she would perform it flawlessly.

Here comes the cripple; make way lest she hurts herself further!

She watched her feet as she walked, taking care to hold her injured hand high. She could see the aqua veins in her feet; the skin there was so thin and translucent much like the rest of her body. She liked it. She wasn't sure why, but she did. She had always been fair, but it had become a sort of private challenge to see how pale she could become. So far, she was splendidly ghost-like. Hey, maybe she'd been playing with her own ectoplasm! Now that made much more sense. Suddenly, she rammed into something unmoving, popping her hand against the object causing her to see stars.

She lost her breath for a split-second before gasping, "shit!"

Well, there went her composure; now everyone in close proximity was staring at her including the nut-ball ginger who had uncovered himself long enough to whimper then hide again, this time shivering under the blankets. Sheesh, you'd think he'd never heard a curse word before.

"Are you all right?" a voiced asked.

She knew that voice. She had only heard it once before, but it hadn't required repeating to be embedded in her mind. Why was he here? Her mind raced with different answered until finally she looked up into that handsome face where all rational thoughts ceased. He was much taller than she remembered, but maybe it was the closeness they shared that displayed how big he truly was. He stood at least two hands taller than Sorrow and twice as broad, which wasn't much considering she was quite small for her age. However, for his age, he was quite _big _and a bastard to ram into. She also noticed he smelled of soap and pomade. It was comforting, and she was more than a little irritated with herself that she found it so. "Yes, I'm sorry. My fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

She stood straight to meet his eyes. He was staring over her shoulder – quite intently she realized. She glanced behind to see whatever it was he was seeing, but only saw the lump of her quivering bed neighbor. Confused, she turned back to find Tom smiling down at her.

Oh, boy, was it a smile.

His eyes flickered over her face then down her body where they stopped abruptly somewhere around her waist. "What's the cause of this?"

Momentarily confused, Sorrow followed his gaze then answered quickly, "oh, this? It's just a reopened injury. Nothing really; it looks worse than it feels."

He grabbed her hand to examine it closer; it hurt like the devil and he wasn't taking care to ease the pain with his roughness. "Probably because you severed nerves," he pointed. "It's quite bad."

"Really?" Sorrow jerked her hand away and pressed it as close to her face as she could manage without looking absurd. Oh! Damn! Had she ruined her fingers?

He chuckled and waited for her to return his attention before continuing, "No, they're paper cuts, but I'm flattered you believed my diagnoses so hastily."

There was a long silence between them as Sorrow grew stiff from the statement.

"Reopened wound you say? What could you have possibly done to reopen such a nasty injury?"

This time he took her hand gently in his own before removing his wand from his robes. He whispered a complicated healing spell while Sorrow watched as her hand was restored to its flawless self. His long, equally pale fingers curled softly around her entire hand, "something tells me you haven't been using this time for rest and recovery."

His devilish eyes flashed back to her stunned baby-blues. She was feeling weak. He terrified and mesmerized her all at once. How could a boy so young evoke such a sophisticated response? A fire quickly spread from where he held her wrist to her cheeks as she blushed pink.

"That was amazing!"

"Paper cuts," he waved his free hand dismissively.

"No they weren't! That was an impressive show of magic seeing as how those cuts were caused by an advanced spell," she blurted.

He cocked an eyebrow then smiled, "Really? Then I suppose I don't give myself enough credit."

He released her hand (much to her disappointment) and glided around her messy bed, glancing here and there, but never long enough to form a proper observation of any one thing. He sat down on the opposite bed, placing a large bag next to him.

"I have something for you," he said, patting the backpack.

"You do?" This was interesting. He had already returned her wand, what else could he give her?

"Yes," he smiled while gesturing for her to sit on the bed in front of his own. It really was a dazzling smile. She was starting to see what all the fuss was about.

"Before I accept anything else, I would like to thank you for returning my wand and…well, for returning me. I'm sure you understand how grateful I am."

"I'm sorry I didn't return the wand sooner. I was preoccupied."

"It was there when I awoke, that's what matters," she replied while moving to take her seat on the bed. She stopped in front of it, "You'll have to forgive me. I've been sitting all day; I'd rather stand if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

He drew the bag open then removed a flat square box, but as he did so, a clear ball rolled onto the ground, bouncing across the stone in violent leaps. Sorrow immediately ran after it, catching the sphere within a few quick strides. She drew the globe closer for inspection to ensure it hadn't suffered any blemishes. Suddenly she noticed the ball wasn't clear after all, but was red and turning a deeper shade the longer she held it within her grasp.

"Talk about useless information. I already know I can't remember something significant about that night. I don't need a Remembrall to tell me," she laughed while handing the instrument to Tom. "I hate to have to say this, but they're a waste of gold. A gimmick for first years desperately seeking help in managing their schedules."

"I couldn't agree more. Luckily, I didn't purchase it. It was a gift." He cradled the ball in his hand as he watched the internal smoke return to the default white. "However, sometimes they prove useful."

"Do tell me when you discover one of those times."

Tom only smiled in response before returning his attention to the box in his lap. He ran a hand over the casing. "I thought you might become bored during your stay in the infirmary. If you don't like it, just tell me and I'll return it. I thought it might perk things up for when you have visitors. Maybe even for when I visit…"

When _he_ visits? She definitely hadn't missed that. Tom Riddle, the infamous recluse was giving her a gift and planning for his next social call? This was an odd day indeed.

"It's beautiful. I'm sure it will entertain us for hours," she smiled.

With that, he realized he hadn't actually given her the present to open then hastily handed her the box. It was heavier than it appeared. The wrapping was plain paper tied across with yarn. She untied the string and ripped the paper down the middle to reveal a stately picture of Wizard's Chest plastered atop an unopened board game container. "I love it! How did you know that this is my favorite pastime?"

"I didn't. I gave what I would have appreciated for a gift. It appears we just so happen enjoy the same game. Combine that with your frequent studying in the library, and we have quite a bit in common, Sorrow. "

She smiled. Maybe they did.

"Would you like to break it in?" she asked, unpacking the pieces. She had a lot of questions that were desperately seeking answers. A round of chess would be the perfect icebreaker, and she really wasn't ready for him to leave _just yet._

"No, thank you. I must be on my way. There's an exam tomorrow that requires extensive studying." He stood, his long legs had already been touching the ground before the act. He proceeded to close his book bag then straighten his robes. "Next time, however, I expect the board to be setup in advance."

"Of course!" Sorrow leapt off of the bed to escort Tom out of the infirmary. "I'll be ready for you."

He turned to look at her one last time, his eyes glowing hot. She felt as if there was a very real possiblity that she might melt in those eyes. He smiled the same striking grin she'd already grown fond of while his hand found her own. She wasn't aware of what was happening until he had drawn it close to his lips then kissed the skin softly.

"Be warned. I show no mercy."

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**Side Note:**_ 1 hand in the unit of measure equals 4 inches, and for my friends abroad, that means 10.2 cm. Tom equaling 2 hands taller than our petite Sorrow means he's quite the looming presence! _


	8. Renegade Rhapsody

**Author's Notes: **_Tsk, tsk! Dianthus tried to steal the show with this one. Shame on her. Let's be honest, did you expect anything else from this Slytherin snot? Oh! Hush! It's not bigotry if it's my own House I'm name-calling. _

_FYI: Noein is pronounced [No-een] _

_Dianthus's PoV._

_Enjoy and review! _

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**Chapter 8: Renegade Rhapsody **

It was the third night, and sleep was as elusive as it had been on the first.

With each passing hour, Dianthus's anxiety doubled and the insomnia only amplified her fears. She couldn't stop thinking, worrying, wondering – replaying the sinister scene within her head. She kept reanalyzing every sentence, every tonal inflection, every implied warning, every strategic gesture, every hidden message, and every fleeting emotion that had played across his face during the reproof. Threats had laced his words to the point of near lethality. It had left Dianthus quite literally trembling where she had stood.

Voldemort and danger were synonymous. That's how it had been for as long as she'd known him. It's what made him so excruciatingly attractive. Mysterious, elegant, charming, handsome, articulate, intelligent, _lethal _– he encompassed everything a respectable witch could want. It was no wonder that half the Slytherin House pined for him. She was no different. She yearned for his attention because he was ridiculously selective with whom he deemed worthy. She strived to please him because he was perpetually somber. She followed orders precisely because she knew how particular he was with his schemes. She even set aside time to enforce his commands because she knew how busy his schedule was and how tired he must be after a day's work. She did all of this for him. Never once had she so much as sneezed in the wrong direction. That is, until she'd made one itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny mistake in allowing her feelings to interfere with one of his plans.

Was it such an unforgivable blunder to love him so much? Was her unwavering loyalty so intolerable?

Unquestionably, yes, it had been.

Because of that misstep, she'd been tossed atop the back burner like a pawn awaiting sacrifice during a brilliant chess match. She was expendable. He'd made that message clear three days ago.

It wasn't so much the threat to her life that had Dianthus in a tizzy (although she was undeniably distraught by the prospect of being murdered and her ego severely bruised) it was the implication that Noein, her sister, was to be drug into this mess on her behalf. Noein was eleven and innocent. She wouldn't have the slightest suspicion to Voldemort showing interest, nor stand a chance against attack.

The game was no longer fun.

Who was he to do this? She'd been nothing but loyal, nothing but trustworthy to him. How dare he threaten _her_, Dianthus Amelia Heteric, daughter of Herbert Heteric, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Without warning, she could have his arse hauled off and tried before The Wizengamot where he'd be sentenced to Azkaban for God only knows how long! She'd witnessed every crime he'd ever committed, she was sure of it. She could testify. She _would_ testify. And because she was the daughter of such a prominent official, she could easily claim she was a victim to the conspiracy.

Dianthus could already read the front page of the Daily Prophet:

_**Hogwarts: Institution for the Criminally Insane**_

_In fear for her baby sister's life, Dianthus Heteric – targeted for her father's celebrity in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – was forced into the role of coconspirator to a string of heinous hate crimes instigated by disturbed orphan, Tom Marvolo Riddle, under the alias Lord Voldemort. The title was taken from an anagram of the boy's birth name, hinting at a possible delusional psychiatric condition. The crimes primarily took place in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where Ms. Heteric and Mr. Riddle (who is half muggle) shared the house, Slytherin. Because of Heteric's knowledge of the law, her participation ensured the crimes went unnoticed at the esteemed school and at the Ministry of Magic. However, such events have lead many to question the safety of Hogwarts and its admittance of muggle-born students (see page 12 for article). Astoundingly, in a moment of daring, Ms. Heteric and her sister broke free from their captors and confessed the wrongdoings to local law enforcement. _

_Riddle and his __**willing**__ accomplices_ _are being tried before the Wizengamot for a number of_ _allegations, which include kidnapping, torture, and homicide. It is presumed, though unverified, that Mr. Riddle will face the jury under the insanity defense. Due to the accuracy and execution of the crimes, however, it is unlikely that the plea will hold in court._

_Ms. Heteric is recovering from the traumatic imprisonment, and is reported to be returning to her 'spirited self'."_

All right, maybe the bit about mudbloods was wishful thinking, but that didn't change anything with Mr. Parseltongue. He couldn't stand a chance against her when it came to power. And she was talking about_ real_ power. He might outmatch her in magical ability and wit, but certainly not in social standing and entrapment! Her father didn't become head of Magical Law Enforcement by doing his job well. Ha! There were loads of people who outranked Herbert Heteric in skill, yet they held a position one step above a custodian. She'd learned a thing or two about politics and blackmail thanks to good ol' pops. If you wanted anything in this world, you took it; you didn't wait for it to fall into your lap because you worked hard and smiled pretty. For those that stood in your way…well, let's just say that you made sure lying down became more enticing than standing up.

Yes, she would deal with _Tom._ First, she had to wake Noein.

The hallways were dark, and the stone floor freezing. The dungeons forced students to acquire a taste for winter. Luckily, most Slytherins preferred the cold, but not all of them. For those few, the adjustment had been painful. Dianthus didn't mind the chill so much as the dimness of the corridors. She did like to see where she was going, after all. She relied more on memory and touch than on sight when navigating the tunnels. A mole would have been a more appropriate mascot for Slytherins, but then again such an animal would have repelled students. Even a badger was better than a mole! Still, it would have been more fitting than a snake. Only Salazar spoke Parseltongue. All Slytherins hid in the dark like blind rodents.

Finally, she found the bedchamber for the first years.

She ran her hand over the dry wood and pushed it open. The creaking hinges broke the silence. It was even darker in the room than in the hallway. Dianthus stood motionless for a few moments while her eyes adjusted to the black.

"_Noein,"_ she hissed, trying to keep her voice low.

There was no reply. All right, she was going to have to find the little brat.

"Lumos!"

The room alit with white light. Round faces snuggled under blankets reflected the glow. There, in the middle bed, slept Noein. Dianthus crept across the room to where her sister rested then abruptly shook her awake. She pressed a hand across the girl's mouth to muffle any complaints.

"Shut up! It's me, Dianthus. Don't. Say. A. Word," she warned.

The girl immediately stopped struggling and blinked in compliance. Dianthus removed her hand then leaned closer to her sister's confused face, "We're leaving. Grab your shoes, wand, and coat; we haven't the time or means to carry more. Don't ask questions. Don't gripe."

Noein opened her mouth to protest, but was blocked by an angry glare from her sister. Instead, the younger sibling slid out of bed and began gathering the objects Dianthus had ordered. Once the first year was finished and was garbed in a pale pink pea coat with wand at the ready, the two set out through a door to the main corridor. Dianthus took Noein's hand to guide her; her grip tightened as they wound through endless tunnels then finally approached a door.

"Noein, I mean it; don't try to run away or to scream. I'm doing this for your own protection. Do you understand?"

Noein furrowed her brow then replied, "Yeah, but what is it we're doing? What is it I need protection from?"

"I said no questions!"

The younger sister recoiled then tried to jerk her hand from Dianthus's. The fourth year squeezed her fingers tighter in response, "You will listen to me, and you will thank me later."

"You're hurting me!"

"I'll hurt you more if you don't quiet down. Now shut up and follow me," she tugged at her sister's hand then pushed open the wooden door.

Fresh air hit their faces. Stars twinkled above their heads and the moon reflected off of a lake in the distance. Noein smiled, "I always hoped I'd catch a glimpse of the giant squid."

Dianthus ignored her.

Hogwarts Castle could be seen flittering between trees. They were closer to the welcome carriages than to the actual school grounds, and Dianthus could see the coach house where they were stored. She jerked forward pulling Noein with her. She glanced around before sliding the mammoth doors open. Stationed inside were small horse drawn carriages and the stalls where the "horses" slept were empty – at least to Noein's eyes. Dianthus could see them clearly; they were the most beautifully frightening creatures she'd ever encountered, and tonight they were going to help her escape from an equally magnificent monster.

"Help me saddle them," she barked. Noein just stared at her dumbfounded.

Dianthus remembered that only those who had seen death could see thestrals. The closest thing Noein had come to death was flushing her dead goldfish down the loo.

"Don't just stand there. Fetch the saddles!"

Noein glanced about searching for the saddles before spotting them on a rack near the door. She grabbed one and hauled it over to Dianthus where she stood waiting. Dianthus took the saddle, but not before noticing a silver ring shaped like a serpent wrapped around her sister's middle finger.

"What is that?" she tossed the saddle to the ground before pulling her sister's hand closer.

Noein bit her lip then looked away, "a ring."

"Where did you get it, Noein? Who gave it to you!"

"Stop it! It was just a gift," the girl pulled her hand away.

"From whom?"

"Just a boy I met," she blushed.

Dianthus's heart plummeted into her stomach, "What was his name?"

"I don't know; it doesn't matter. Can we just do whatever it is we were going to do?"

Dianthus seized Noein by the shoulders then shook her hard, "Tell me his name! Who is he!"

"Tom! His name is Tom!"

"_Tom…"_ Dianthus whispered. Her eyes grew wider as she realized the severity of the situation. The ring served as a tracking beacon. Voldemort would know they were out of the castle. She grabbed Noein's hand then worked the ring off of her finger.

"Stop! Give it back!" Noein lunged forward, trying to reclaim the piece of jewelry. Dianthus knocked her back with an elbow then blasted the ring into slivers with a flick of her wand.

That was it. They were going to be murdered and no one would ever know why or who did it. "You stupid girl; you've killed us," she whispered as silent tears slid down her cheeks.

"Not quite," said a cold voice from the doorway.

Dianthus turned to face him; she knew he'd be close to finding them, and she was right. His face and body were concealed by a hooded robe. Mud and snags lined the hem as the fabric drug against the ground. He'd been in a hurry.

He walked forward slowly, his footsteps silent, "You're right; death is inevitable, but I'll hardly allow a first year to take credit."


	9. Voices in the Night

**Author's Notes:**_ Come on, guys…I write you chapters and you're supposed to review. Compared to the number of subscriptions and traffic for this story, I can't help but feel our exchange is one-sided. Every time I see a review in my mailbox, I practically squeal with delight because it seems so rare. _

_Please review :(_

_(Kisses to the readers who write comments at the end of each chapter. Muah! You guys keep V.O. going)._

_We're shifting the rating to 'M,' kiddies! I hope you're as excited as I am!_

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Chapter 9: Voices in the Night

Smoke filled the small shack within seconds, sending Tavis scurrying to the nearest window. He threw open the pane then began fanning the smog into open-air instead of huffing it up his nose. Maybe he _had_ cooked the steak a little too long…

He preferred his food well-done; charred was another story. He'd have to throw it out for scraps since it was clearly hard as marble. Tomorrow he would take the ruined meat into the Forbidden Forest where he was sure some cynogriffon or snotling would devour it. It was best not to waste food no matter its condition. Still…what was he going to eat for dinner? He leaned further out the window, taking a deep breath of fresh air. The night was chilly and the stars bright. Being the Keeper of The Grounds was relaxing on days such as this one. There were no loud children romping about or grumpy teachers barking orders. Tonight, it was just him, a fire, a burnt stake, and a peaceful view. Life didn't always have to be painful.

Tavis was a simple man who possessed simple needs. Landing the groundskeeper position had been one of the happiest days of his young life. He no longer had to worry with fancy etiquette, eloquent speech, or proper attire – things he'd never been very good at. Out here, in the quiet oasis surrounding Hogwarts, he could be himself. He didn't have to be ashamed of his blood status or of his social class or struggle with daily humiliations of inadequacy. Out here, Tavis Hawkins belonged, and there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't thank God for this opportunity. He wouldn't screw this up; not in a million years. He couldn't. Life had dealt him a crummy hand, but he had decided to make the best of it. This job was his only hope if he wished to live a decent existence.

And so he smiled, taking in the obscure scenery around him.

Movement from the corner of his eye snapped the man back to reality. He scanned the area surrounding his hut, but failed to find the source of distraction. Nothing was there. Was he seeing things? A small circle of sight was illuminated by the fire in his living room; it both focused and hindered his vision. Everything outside was clear where the light shown, but it was as if a black, impenetrable curtain clung to the edges of the glow. Whatever it had been (if it had been anything at all), had crept into the darkness. Was it still there…looking at him? He had no way of knowing from his post at the windowsill and that thought made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He would have to investigate if he wanted answers; after all, it was his job as groundskeeper to make sure students didn't sneak out of the castle or – god forbids – a creature from the forest didn't venture onto the grounds.

"Who's there? Show yourself lest you want the headmaster on ya!" he barked.

Tavis would have sworn he heard whispers then. He'd been unable to make out the words, but they had been rushed and terse in their communication. It sounded as if several people were hissing violently.

"This is your last warning! Don't make me come after you."

Something dark fluttered into the light before it danced away on the wind. His eyes squinted at the sight; had that been a…cloak? Suddenly soft laughter surfed through the air. They were mocking him. Little snot nosed brats! He ducked low to move away from the window and find his torch. If they wanted to play games, he'd make them regret it. That's when a sweet voice stopped him in his tracks, his hand still grasping the windowsill, "Tavis, don't. We were just funnin' you."

Tavis turned to look out the window once again, but this time noticed a lovely, blonde girl skirting the edge of the light. She was tan and curvy and her silky hair reflected silver. He instantly recognized her. "Dianthus! What are you doing out here this early in the morning!" He traced his eyes over her body, realizing she was poorly dressed for the weather, "and where's your coat and shoes?"

Suddenly he became aware she wasn't wearing a dark cloak, then remembered she had said, "we were just funnin' you." Who else was with her?

Dianthus stood still for a moment, his questions seemed to pass through her mind unnoticed. Her eyes were half lidded as they gazed at him. He wasn't sure if she was tired or trying her hand as seduction – and a rather poor hand at that. He settled on tired. One thing about Dianthus was that she didn't need to seduce anyone. She was beautiful and rich and fairly lax with whom she entertained. It was a lethal combination for the boys who attended Hogwarts.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she spoke ever so slowly, "Noein wants to catch a glimpse of the giant squid. Will you join us?"

What the hell? It was two in the morning and they were taking a pleasure stroll…without shoes?

"Dianthus, is there something the matter?" He leaned out the window as if that would somehow answer his own question.

She looked at him with the same blank, drunken stare. "Nothing's the matter. Noein wants to catch a glimpse of the giant squid. Will you join us?"

Tavis didn't move or say a word. Something was off about this girl. She gave him more chills than the night air.

"You should join us. I think you should join us, Tavis. Will you join us?"

She was stiff and her words were that of a puppet. _What the fuck was going on?_

"Where is Noein?" he asked.

The Slytherin girl closed her mouth then frowned confusedly as if the question had appeared on a NEWT exam. Tavis stared at her, growing more uneasy the longer he waited for a reply to this simple query. Suddenly, Dianthus's face contorted into horror then pain before her body crumpled onto the ground like a wet leaf.

"Stupid, Mudbloods, always complicating things," a venomous voice hissed from the dark. "You should have listened to Dianthus, for I'll not treat you as kindly as she."

A dark figure advanced from the shadows, pointing a wand at Tavis's face.

"Holy shit!" the groundskeeper gasped.

Tavis jumped up quickly, barely escaping a stunning bolt, but in the process caused the windowpane to slam down upon his back. His torso was jammed under the pane as he struggled to free himself before his attacker decided to strike again.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_

He heard laughter…at least he thought he had. His senses weren't as in tuned to his surroundings as he would have appreciated; he was too preoccupied with trying to free himself to pay attention to anything else going on around him.

"_Colloportus!"_ The cloaked figure shouted, causing the heavy window to lock in its place. No matter how hard he struggled beneath it, the man couldn't budge the frame. Tavis was trapped.

_"Quencio!"_ the voice roared. The fire which flickered within the house was instantly extinguished, bathing Tavis in dense darkness.

He needn't see to realize death was stalking him in the night.


	10. Fireflies

**Author's Notes: **_I know I sound like a broken record, but college-life rules my life. Months pass before I have time to write. I apologize. However, I assure you I LOVE writing this short story and plan on creating many more chapters if you guys are willing to wait :) _

_On that note, thank you elspethe, Mooncalf, Seth Genovela, Victoria, GreenLizard, Anon.05., Mikey, Live Love Laugh 94, Adrian, Beretta9mm, RabidRabbit, Spik85, and Servilla for your reviews! I relished every comment and was deeply touched that you took the time to share your thoughts :D_

_P.S. This chapter was really hard for me to spit out (and that's how it felt), so hopefully I've made Tommy Boy proud._

_Now on with the show!_

* * *

Chapter 10: Fireflies

He cut the air with his gaze, but saw nothing. Blackness pooled around him. Tavis was unsure how long he had been unconscious, but the pain he felt confirmed he was lucid.

He was lying flat on his back, greeting the stones as they bruised his tissue. His body was sliding - willingly inching across pointy, cruel objects despite his mind's protest. Friction from gravel upon skin seared his nerves until they were sensitive to the faintest snag. It was an insidious pain; the type of pain disguised as annoyance until rawness gave way to agony.

Wetness dampened the posterior of his shirt. Countless causes barreled through his mind as he raced to answer his own question. Was it water? Sweat? Mud? _Blood? _With each passing mound of pain, weeping wounds were the most likely culprit. The ground was a razor intent on peeling the skin until muscle was bare and dragging across sharpened grass. Waves of sickness locked his stomach in twists as the vision of a blood-soaked jumper flashed before his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids closed in an effort to control his nausea.

He was dreaming. He must be dreaming! The last scene he recalled was cooking dinner. There had been smoke from the stove; he had cracked a window to vent the kitchen. He remembered fresh air and the night sky. A burnt steak and…and laughter! There had been laughter! But from whom? He searched his memory to find blurry phantoms streaking his recollection, taunting his confusion with smeared smiles.

A sudden jab ignited flames across his back as another stone rolled down his spine.

His eyes snapped open to stare into blackness. He needed to yell, needed to cry for help. He didn't care who heard the screams. If he screamed, someone would hear him. If he screamed, someone would save him. He tried to open his mouth to beg, to shout, to gasp, to choke back tears, but stiffness overcame him. He couldn't move. Yet, somehow, he _was _moving. He was being dragged over jagged terrain, and his back was burning because of it.

He took a deep breath before rocking side-to-side, ignoring the stabs of pain shooting along his spinal column. To his relief, Tavis _could_ move, but not much – not enough. His movement was sluggish; it was as if his body had been lathered in taffy, immobilizing him with sticky weight. He jerked his head to the side, eyes searching for a glimpse of his surroundings. He couldn't see beyond the black, and his head was suddenly throbbing. How long had it been pounding? Why hadn't he noticed before? He lowered his head to the ground once more, surrendering to the dizzying rhythm.

He could smell moisture in the air. It was a heavy scent that tugged at the nostrils before filling the lungs and suffocating the senses. A sharp, pungent odor laced with humidity. He could taste it as his tongue curled around the coppery tang, confirming the presence of blood. His neck lolled to the side. Dirt weighed thick and sour; the night's drizzle had showered the soil, leaving the minerals exposed and bitter.

Wet. Everything was wet and slogged. Where was he going? When would he arrive at the destination he was doomed to reach?

Something rustled nearby. He turned toward the direction of the noise. Twigs and leaves were cracking in swift succession followed by sloughing sounds. He wasn't alone, that much he knew, but what was unfolding around him was a mystery. Suddenly, it stopped. Everything stopped. His body stilled and the pain ceased. The foliage silenced and the blackness lifted.

Stars shattered the sky above. Leo, Orion, Ursa Major and Minor shone into dazed eyes. All the constellations were in their assigned positions. Beside him, a few meters away, voices murmured…or had it been one? The sound had been smooth and feathery as though flitting on thick air. There was something about the voice that panicked him. It was familiar and deep and hummed in a low whisper. But beyond that, it was calm. A calm voice in a distressing situation only distressed him more. This voice was in control. Tavis was not.

He slowly turned his head to catch a glimpse of the person who had spoken, but failed to see anyone. Only the edge of the Forbidden Forest lay outstretched before him. As he had hoped, they were on school grounds. But where exactly? He tried to move, to stir from his position, but the invisible bindings hugging his torso tightened in response. He tried to speak, but was unable. The sound of splashing water set his senses vibrating. Before he had realized it, he swallowed his voice with a shuddering breath. He was near the lake!

Tavis was unsure how much time had elapsed from when the splashing had begun to when it had ceased. It didn't sound like a struggle; the splashes were too far apart and lazy. It didn't sound like swimming; the splashes were too frequent and light. He focused on Orion's Belt while straining his ears for the faintest of noise. When it came, his heart doubled. The same voice spoke again, but still Tavis could not decipher the words. Instantly, his body was flung upright, his feet dangling mere inches above the ground.

His eyes blurred then focused on the scene before him. Pulled taught over treeless landscape was a lake rippled with movement. The full moon leaked light unevenly across the water, stamping areas with a blinding glow while blackness glazed the rest. For a moment, the lake was dancing glass, flexible and fragile. Small flashes of light pulsed in erratic patterns above the liquid like dying stars hovering for the last bit of life, and for an instant, Tavis was saddened.

Uneasiness swept over him as stillness sagged the landscape. It was the type of feeling one felt when being watched. He remembered crackling leaves and a hushed voice. Spurred by fear, he surveyed the shoreline. He saw nothing until a figure from the left caught his eye. It was a sleek curtain of black hung still in the air. He couldn't make out the exact shape other than a dense silhouette. It was still – too still. Though he couldn't see it, he knew the figure was looking at him – leering at him. Every hair standing on end warned him. He tried to speak, to call out, but was unable. He could only stare into the blackness that was the vulture.

The shadow surged closer, rippling in waves too faint for a worldly creature. Time slowed as the ink crept nearer. Tavis's head swirled while his eyes struggled to stay focused. His head was pounding, and again he wondered why he hadn't noticed before. The darkness was meters away, gaining ground steadily…and then it stopped.

Hands white as the moon slid from sleeves to push away a hood. Tavis's eyes widened as he realized his perpetrator. There, since the founders themselves, stood the brightest wizard in Hogwarts' history. Tom Riddle met Tavis's gaze with pure propriety.

"Tavis," Tom inclined his head.

Tavis tried to respond, to shout Tom's name and countless obscenities thereafter, but only muffled indignities filled the air. He blinked in frustration. Why couldn't he speak!

"Forgive me. Your…_condition _slipped my mind," Tom smiled while removing a wand then flicking his wrist with an unmatched elegance, "_Alohomariac Tongui!"_

The rehearsal of the spell was more graceful than the movement in which it took to cast. From the smug look on the spell caster's face, Tavis understood Tom knew his technique was perfect and needn't compliments. Tavis opened his jaw, which was stiff from the recent immobility. The muscles were sore, but relieved to be moving. His body, however, remained teetering on paralysis. Before he had considered what to say, he blurted his questions partly for answers and partly to test his voice, "Tom! What's going on? What are you doing? Release me!"

"An exclamation, two questions, and a demand," the boy smirked. "Whichever do I acknowledge first? Shall I respond in the manner in which they were presented, or ignore them altogether?" Tom fiddled with his wand, running his boney fingers over the thin tip before sliding them along the length of the wood.

He stared into Tavis's coal black eyes, but his own remained sightless, "the exclamation is understandable; I am thrilling. The questions I will answer in due time. The demand," he laughed a low rumble, it was the kind of laugh not associated with anything funny, "well, you aren't in a position for demands. We will act as though you never spoke such words."

"Who do you think you are!" Tavis barked. He bucked his hips against the invisible coils, determined to break free and pummel the arrogant bastard before him. The bindings tightened until they were constricting his lungs and stomach. His intestines were pinched and the air thin. Tavis gasp before falling limp. Defeated, he looked into the eyes of the boy once more.

He was met with a smile.

"I'm the fellow who holds you with Petrificus Totalus. For a squib such as yourself, that means your body is bound and under _my_ control. If I were you, I wouldn't allow my emotions to run free. Your body, after all, cannot follow." His voice was cutting. There wasn't a sentence to pass Tom's lips that Tavis didn't believe.

The wraith of a boy stepped closer, his cloak pooling around his feet in a dark puddle, "I didn't want this, you know."

Was he serious? He looked serious. The expression on Tom's face rang true, but then why was Tavis here? Why was his back bleeding and his lungs suffocating from constraints fit for a criminal! What was to become of him? "You didn't want this?" he repeated, trying to gain clarity from the flat statement.

"It wasn't my desire," Tom nodded.

"Then let me go!" Tavis cried. He summoned what strength he had left to flail for all he was worth. The action was futile. He couldn't break the bonds, and now he was certain his body would soon be crushed from the increased pressure.

"I told you to control yourself. The coils tighten in response to resistance. I imagine they're quite uncomfortable now." Tom eyed Tavis's shrunken body. He fingered the man's ribcage. It was a soft touch, only a flirtation of what could be, and still the pain exhibited by the gesture sent Tavis into cold sweats. "Is it difficult to breathe?" he asked.

It was as if he cared, as if Tavis would believe the concern of the Devil. If he said 'yes,' what would the boy do? Smile? Laugh? Wallop his chest? There was no point in playing a game already lost. A game required energy, that of which Tavis was depleted.

Tom slunk away, retracting his hand along with his attention. His gaze hovered above the lake toward the blinking lights. Silence befell them.

Tavis quit counting the seconds past and concentrated on shallow breaths, the only breaths his imprisonment would allow. Tom was a statue. His thoughts were either profound or nonexistent. Judging by the boy's academic achievements, Tavis doubted Tom had a peaceful moment in his head.

Finally, the boy spoke into the distance, "fireflies are fascinating beetles."

He turned to face Tavis, "they are not really flies, you know. Only the layman would assume so. You see, flies posses one pair of wings, while all other flying insects don several." his face and voice filled with what could only been described as brilliant enthusiasm. "They belong to the family Lampyridae, and are not characterized solely on their bioluminescence, as only_ some_ adult species retain the ability to glow. The larva, however, always possess the talent."

The lilt of his voice sounded like a professor's fervor during a lecture of great interest. His eyes were hot with heat; they seemed to almost glow red in the night. Or had Tavis imagined the flash of color?

"Fireflies aren't the only bioluminescent insects. There are many." He raised his hand to count his fingers, "click beetles, glow worms, railroad worms, and more! Beetles are simply the most studied, and these beetles," he pointed to the fireflies dancing above the water, "are the most familiar."

Tavis stared confusedly at the boy. He failed to understand where the conversation was going, and failed to see what was fascinating about fireflies other than their pretty mating display. He dare not interrupt, though. What would happen if he did?

Tom fell silent once more. His chest rising and falling with labored breaths as his eyes grew twice their normal size. "Would you like to hear what is most interesting about fireflies, Tavis?" His voice was cold now, a frigid contrast to the heated excitement played forth moments ago.

Tavis shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he wanted to listen.

"Aggressive mimicry," Tom answered. He moved closer to the nervous man, "a phenomenon where one organism tricks another organism into believing a _lie. _In the end, the results always benefit the deceiver."

"So…is this aggressive mimicry?" Tavis choked between heaves. He was tired of the game and ready for the show.

Tom laughed, "I had faith you'd notice the similarities. You do not disappoint."

Tavis sneered, "enough fucking around, boy. What is it you want?"

Tom acted as if the profanity hadn't been heard, then continued with his lesson, "in fireflies, their flashing display is used for one of two occasions: mating or _hunting_." His eyes smiled, "do I have your attention now?"

Tavis fidgeted. The lesson was becoming more violent and disturbing with each second. He had a feeling fireflies were nasty bugs.

"For the second occasion - the predatory occasion - fireflies flash to attract mates of other _species_. When the tricked insect, called the Dupe, glides close enough to realize the coquette isn't what she feigned to be, it's too late! The Dupe is our little Lampyridae's dinner. Aggressive mimicry, it's called."

Tavis glared at the boy, "and what is the lie in our scenario? The lie you've "duped" me into believing?"

Tom searched Tavis's face disbelievingly. It was as if the answer was so obvious that the need to inquire was offensive.

"Tom Riddle, of course!"

It was so matter of fact - such a glaring truth. Tom Riddle was a mask, nothing more. The boy hiding beneath the facade was something else altogether. The kid was a walking secret. A secret Tavis wished he had never uncovered.

The boy was pacing now. His coat billowing behind him in erratic bursts, "Would you like to know the capabilities of firefly larva? Like mother like daughter, I always say." He didn't wait for a response as he was too consumed in his role of orator, "they stalk their prey before injecting the targeted insect with an anesthetic substance. The substance causes paralysis, allowing for easier consumption."

Tavis looked up, his heart racing. Anticipation flooded Tom's eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Tom frowned, and for the first time, his perfect face was cracked, "come now, Tavis, you can't be sharp in the beginning then a dullard at the end. Where is the fun in that?"

_At the end?_

"What are you getting at, Tom!" his chest was burning now. He dare not make another lunge for the boy lest he be crushed completely by the compressing coils.

"I find them," he took an exaggerated breath, "inspirational! Kindred spirits."

"What?" Tavis gasped. Kindred spirits? What the hell did the boy have planned? Sweat beaded down his forehead into his eyes. He couldn't move his arms to wipe away the perspiration; he was forced to suffer with the liquid sagging from his lashes.

"Tavis, I have to admit, it's taken you longer than expected," he wagged a disappointed finger.

"What has? What's taken longer than expected?"

"To discover the reason for our lack of company," Tom smiled while taking a step back, revealing two crumpled mounds of clothing near the water's edge.

Tavis narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his vision on the scene before him. Fabric blanketed the ground in layered heaps. One mass was smaller than the other and painted…white? Or was it pink? He moved as close to the objects as his shackles would permit only to find it wasn't nearly close enough. He twisted his head to the side then stared. Moonlight bounced off of blonde hair. Suddenly, it came to him. Dianthus calling from outside, her strange behavior before a cloaked figure rushed to attack him! Dianthus! Dianthus was the crumpled mound! But who was the other? Why would anyone hurt Dianthus? Why would anyone want to cause her pain?

"What have you done to her?" Tavis howled.

"Technically, she did it to herself," he replied, cocking his head to better survey the bodies.

"She would never hurt herself!"

"Of course she wouldn't hurt herself, but what about suicide?" Tom asked. His attention was on Tavis now. It only reminded the groundskeeper how much he dreaded being the object of interest.

"Suicide? She would never…" he whispered.

"No, no, you're right. She was much too conceited for suicide. There's no motive. Why would she kill her favorite person?" His strides were swift. It took four steps to close the area between Tom and the bodies. "I did, however, witness her dive into the lake to save Noein. You see, her sister had insisted on visiting the lake in the hopes of feeding the giant squid. Noein had always been a clumsy child, so it came as no surprise when she slipped and fell into the water. I can attest to neither girl being an Olympian. It would have been quick work of them both had you not come to the rescue."

Tavis stopped breathing. He was listening to a private telling of his own obituary.

Tom knelt beside the small mound – Noein, Tavis assumed. His fingers brushed against the first year's blue cheeks, "you dragged Noein from the water before leaping into the lake to rescue Dianthus. Unfortunately, you were so intent on saving them both, that in your haste, you forgot to resuscitate Noein before pursuing her sister. Unknown to you, Dianthus had hit her head on a rock then lost consciousness. She had floated to the middle of the lake. You tried to reach her, to save her, but the water was too cold. Hypothermia set in, and you succumbed to the same fate as the blonde harpies. "

Tom stood, his voice adopting the same theatrical cadence during the discussion about fireflies, "The coward dies a hero. Oh! Sweet irony strikes again!"

"You're mad…" Tavis breathed, "truly, you are."

Tom waved his hand in the air derisively, "brilliance is often mistaken for insanity."

He wasn't brilliant. He was a monster, a monster who had murdered Dianthus and her sister and now he was going to murder him. Hogwarts' star pupil was a sociopath and no one had the slightest suspicion! No one was going to save him. He was going to die.

The boy stalked closer to Tavis, eyes shining with red. "This is when the firefly allegory becomes relevant." He pointed his wand to the floating man, _"Mobilicorpus!"_

At once, Tavis jerked forward, floating toward the lake. His heart quickened. He couldn't die…not yet! He was still young. He hadn't accomplished anything. Who would miss him? Who would mourn him! No one. No one would miss a squib groundskeeper. Not even family because Tavis had no family. He had lived in an orphanage since age six. No one had adopted him because no one wanted a failure. He was forgettable and he was going to die alone. He was going to be murdered and the bastard who did it would get away!

His chest ached. The coils were suffocating now that his pulse had accelerated. He couldn't die! He couldn't! Why was this happening to him? He had been a good person, hadn't he? He had paid his bills on time and donated to the needy during the holidays. He had even volunteered at the local orphanage when the manor roof needed repairing. He certainly hadn't been the brightest person in life, but he had tried. He really had.

Tavis struggled against the coils as he approached the water, "Please, Tom, don't. You're a good boy. This isn't you. Let me go and I won't tell anyone anything." His voice was cracking. Dry. His throat was so dry.

Tom lowered his wand, easing Tavis into the water below, "I suggest breathing to speed along the process. Water must be present in the lungs, otherwise it will look as if it was a dry drowning, and we don't want that."

His feet were the only things submerged, yet he couldn't breathe. His throat felt as if it were swelling with pressure, then tears began pouring down his face. He sucked in a loud breath before releasing a howl of sobs, "you can't, Tom, you just can't! What have I ever done to you? I was just doin' my job!"

Tom halted the decent, "Look at your back! Such wounds will appear strange on a drowned corpse."

"What?" Tavis gasped between cries. He then remembered how painful his back felt when being dragged across the ground. The skin must look like hamburger meat.

"_Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur," _Tom chanted behind him. "Much better," he hissed.

The pain in his back was gone. For an instant Tavis was relieved. Then his feet sank lower into the water.

"Please, Tom…" Tavis's voice was a whisper.

"Now do you see your relation to the fireflies? Paralyzed, and dying at the hands of Hogwarts' saint. Oh, well, nearly paralyzed. Maybe immobile is a better word? After all, you will feel everything." Tom almost sang the last sentence.

The tears were heavy and mixed with sweat and snot.

The water was to his waist. Numbness crept up his spine from the icy temperature of the lake. Maybe he _wouldn't_ feel much. Maybe he would lose consciousness quickly.

The water was to his chest. He shivered in his constraints. A splash nearby drew Travis's attention away from himself. Dianthus's body had been thrown into the water. She floated past him, her face upright and grey. Even in death she was pretty.

The water was to his neck. If he breathed in, it would be quick. That's what Tom had said. But how could he breathe when the natural inclination was to hold his breath? The water was inching up his face, drawing close to his nostrils. Tavis shook his head, determined to stave off his liquid tomb.

The water had passed his nose now. His eyes searched the shoreline for help.

A boy stood tall on the bank. A motionless shadow.

Fireflies danced around him.


	11. Grim Tidings

**Author's Notes:** _All right, I did it. I watched it! I watched the most anticipated Harry Potter movie to date, and I must say I was less than pleased with the portrayal of Tom Riddle. _

_Oh! Wait! There was no portrayal of Tom Riddle! The ONE book that was dedicated to the mysterious past of Lord Voldemort, that was filled with memories and insight into the life of Tom Riddle, that could have revealed the very beginnings of our dear villain, has been squandered and adapted into a hormonally charged, teen-angst flick with flippant nods toward the main antagonist!_

_How could this have happened? Have we forgotten that He Who Must Not be Named is the very creator of the Boy Who Lived? Without him, Harry Potter would be a no body – a big fat zero – and our cherished fantasy would have been kaput before it had even began! _

_Doesn't that make this villain worthy of a closer inspection? Apparently not._

_Voldemort fans were going to have a movie just for them, but, no. Even Half-Blood Prince proved susceptible to a Harry __**Pooter**__ love-fest. _

_Yuck and shame on you, Rowling, for allowing this. I'll be honest (as if I haven't been this entire time), besides the blatant disregard for our beloved backbone of the series, the movie was exceptionally…BORING._

_That is all._

_Sorrow's PoV_

_Enjoy! :)_

* * *

Chapter 11: Grim Tidings

The morning seemed like any other. The sun had drizzled gold across the cobblestone floor, illuminating its imperfections, yet somehow neglecting to bring heat. The grey, chipped walls dulled the senses while peeling away sanity. Healing was on the top of the Things to Do list. That was because a patient couldn't _do_ _anything_ except heal.

This morning seemed like any other – that is, until Sorrow had heard about a midnight drowning of three people in the lake. That wasn't exactly normal for a Hogwarts's sunup.

Thankfully, today was her last day in the infirmary. Just as soon as she was finished packing her things, Sorrow would be free. Free to immerse herself within a sea of text and allow the undertow of study exhaustion to overtake her. It was a familiar routine, a routine she had been deprived and dearly missed. She longed for her prison of books, her pillow of parchment, and her rouge of ink smudges.

Sorrow wasn't sure who the three dead people were. No one knew. Well, no one except for her professors and the Ministry of Magic. Investigators had flown to the scene during the night. They answered student questions with grunts and scowls, but from what she had gathered from floating rumors, it had all been an accident. How exactly three people had _accidentally_ drowned was beyond her, but it was a more comforting thought than homicide, which was the other rumor buzzing around campus.

Murder at Hogwarts…surely that was impossible.

She slipped a hairbrush into a side pocket of her duffle bag, then searched the end table for the novel she had been reading the night before. _Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs _was concealed within the bindings of_ Ancient Runes: An Introduction._ Smutty romance tales were her weakness. Anytime she went to Flourish and Blotts for a new spell book, she had to stop by Fantasy Haven to sneak a peek at their best sellers. It was simply unfeasible not to. She wasn't sure what she would do if someone ever found the horde of naughty novels under her bed…probably deny ownership. That or die.

Maybe both.

Sorrow glanced around her area one last time. Everything of importance had been packed. She quickly straightened her sheets before grabbing her bag and proceeding down the long, open hallway of the infirmary. Madam Demzai was gone. She had been gone since the news of the drowning.

"Leaving?"

Sorrow stopped to discern the source of the voice. It had been Brumble. The boy was awake and sitting up in bed for the first time in days. She studied him for a moment. His flaming red hair was disheveled and oily. His painfully pink cheeks looked as if they had been slapped more than usual. And his bloodshot eye was now white.

"Yes," she replied. It was a curt answer, but she didn't care. The boy was obnoxious and rather offensive. He was also pitiful…and depressed. She stiffened at the realization before forcing a smile. It was awkward and obviously superficial.

"Be careful," he whispered. He looked down suddenly, averting his gaze. His hands were clingingly tightly to the sides of his plaid shirt. He bit his lip. Something in the boy's expression disturbed Sorrow. He was serious in what he was saying, and quite afraid, too.

"Be careful?" She knew about the three people drowning, but why would that relate to her safety? She knew how to swim and never visited the lake. "Why?"

"Those people…the ones who died," he flickered his eyes to meet hers, "they were killed."

Murdered? No. That was impossible. No one could be murdered at Hogwarts.

"Brumble, those are rumors! You can't listen to idle gossip. Hogwarts is _the_ safest place besides the Ministry itself. It is inconceivable that someone could be murdered…nevertheless _three_ people!"

Heat crept up her face. Why would he even suggest such a thing?

"Are you aware of the amount of charms that have been placed upon this castle to prevent the very thing you claimed happened?" She demanded.

"No," Brumble's face hardened, "but I know it's not nearly as impossible as you would have me believe."

"YOU do not even know the history of this castle!" she pointed a finger. "The enchantments sown into the stone! The charms cast into the gable! The Alarms threaded into the very fabric you sleep under! Do not spout such nonsense until you have done your homework."

She was livid, but why? He hadn't voiced anything different than from what other students had already suggested, yet for some reason the conviction of his words scared and enraged her.

"They didn't die in the castle, did they?" The boy asked. His eyes were angry and brimming with tears. He was shaking. From fury or fear, she was unsure.

The question offset Sorrow. No, they hadn't died in the castle. They had died outside in the lake, outside many of the charms' range. Her posture softened. Perhaps Brumble had a point.

"Look, all I'm asking is that you be careful. Just don't trust anyone," he was no longer angry. All defiance had melted from his blotchy face. He looked almost defeated.

But why?

"Please…promise me?" his voice was pleading now.

Sorrow turned to fully view the boy. His body was jerking in small, tight spasms. His lips were tightly pursed. He was trying to control his trembles. She followed his gaze to a window. It was the window overlooking the lake.

He truly _did_ believe the people had been murdered. He was scared for himself, and for her.

"All right, Brumble," Sorrow started to take a step forward, but decided against it before returning to her previous position, "I will be careful."

She never knew how to comfort someone. She blamed it on her lack of friends and dysfunctional family dynamics. Anytime an acquaintance needed advice or a shoulder to cry on, she conveniently remembered something she had forgotten. Usually it pertained to exams or a meeting with Head of House to discuss her future plans. She never had to worry about anyone but herself – and that monopolized her time. But, now, looking at the distraught redhead, it was clear that she needed to say_ something_ to Brumble. She couldn't leave him snotting all over himself in a spasming fit.

"You do the same, okay?" It was all she could muster. It was true that she needed to work on delicacy...but not today.

Before he could reply, Sorrow had turned and sprinted out of the infirmary. She couldn't take anymore of his emotional breakdown. She didn't even give him an excuse as to why she needed to leave. She simply had to. It was quite obvious.

The next day passed like any other.

Sorrow could now sleep in her own bed, with her usual chamber mates to keep her company. The nights were not as chilly as in the infirmary, and she didn't have to listen to the moans and gasps brought by Brumble's night terrors – or the clanking of bed pans when Madam Demzai decided a patent needed to use the loo. The nights were much quieter than she had become accustom to. Sometimes, the silence rang just as noisily as the snores of her once ailing cot neighbors. But, somehow, Sorrow found it a much easier transition to fall back into solitude than when being ripped from it.

That morning, Herbology was scheduled. She enjoyed the class, though she had to admit it wasn't her favorite period. Her favorite course, by far, was Potions. Potions could grant any student, witch or wizard, complete access to the world and its mysteries. Nothing was out of reach if one could learn the subtle gift of brewing. Life, death, beauty, intelligence, wit, truth could all be tapped into with the right concoction. Herbology was closely related to Potions due to most components of tonics requiring plants. If one desired to master Potions, they had to master Herbology. So, Sorrow took the class quite seriously - and she was tickled whenever a seedling finally sprouted.

Sorrow gathered her books and quills before doubling back to snatch her potted succulents. They were part of a yearlong project. Professor Sprig had assigned all fourth years the task of picking three plants of their choice and nurturing them from seed to sprout. Whoever kept all three of their plants alive at year's end, passed with an "Outstanding." Those who didn't, were graded accordingly.

There were students who, without considering the success rate, had picked fussy plants like orchids and African Violets based solely on their beauty. Then, there had been the students who had picked cactuses with the hopes of having to do little work – if none at all – during the project. The test was not simply intended to sort out the nurturing individuals from those with killer thumbs; it was also created to observe the thinking patterns of the procrastinators, the hedonists, and the pragmatic students. Everyone was given a choice; what one did with that choice was entirely up to them. It was the only project in Herbology where the student could literally choose their grade. Ironically, not many were aware of that glaring fact.

Sorrow chose succulents. Three of them; all planted in the same terracotta pot. She didn't choose them solely on their hardiness. The thick, fleshy leaves were beautifully eerie. They came in an array of colors and textures and flowers. All three were hybrids of different echeveria. Her favorite was the Echeveria Afterglow, a dainty pink blossom-shaped plant.

Succulents were precious, and so she had chosen them.

When she arrived at the greenhouse, most of the Gryffindor were already seated, plants in tow. Some of the students' vegetation appeared wilted or withered, and then there were the few whose pots remained empty. Apparently, the seeds did not take. All the Ravenclaw, however, had healthy, thriving projects. Sorrow was not surprised. She took her usual seat next to Nan Hargrove.

Nan was a waif. Her skin was the hue of mildew; her hair was dull and stringy. As if to add insult to injury, the girl had a distracting twitch of her top lip whenever she became the least bit excited. It was all very unbecoming. But what Nan lacked in looks, she made up for in alarming intelligence. She was a Ravenclaw for good reason. Sorrow never forgot that.

"Where's Professor Sprig?" Sorrow whispered.

"Don't know. I've been wondering the same thing for ten minutes." Nan was looking off into the distance.

Sorrow sat her potted plants on the desk before dropping the books beneath her chair. The air was thick with moisture, making it a challenge to breathe. It felt like the temperature was rising by the minute. Now she remembered why she preferred Potions to Herbology…greenhouses were sweltering.

"I wish he'd hurry; I don't want to be here any longer than I must," she grumbled.

For the first time since Sorrow had arrived, Nan looked at her, "Already hot? I've been here for fifteen minutes waiting for a tardy teacher. I can't say any of us want to be here, Sorrow."

That was Nan in a nutshell. Blunt and succinct.

Sorrow stretched out in her chair, balancing on the two back legs. It was so humid...so sour smelling. It was a mixture of fungus and rot. Sprig was never late. What was keeping him?

"May I have your attention, please?"

Sorrow tilted her head back, observing the speaker upside down. A long, white beard was hanging from a wrinkled face. It was Dumbledore.

"Professor Sprig is indisposed. Class has been canceled. However, Professor Sprig manage to mention that the 'projects' are to be left on the back table along with your name. Assessment of your progress will be given to you by next class. I recommend you use this time for study rather than recreational purposes. Then again, half of you are Ravenclaw, so I'm unsure if the two differ."

Most Ravenclaw laughed. Most Gryffindor rolled their eyes.

Sorrow sat up in her chair, the feet making a loud popping noise when they hit the ground, "class is canceled…how disappointing. It's my first day back and it's canceled!"

"Try not to almost die next time you're studying and you won't be so disappointed when class is canceled," Nan replied.

She had a point…

She picked up her plant then turned to Nan and said, "Don't forget to write your name."

Sorrow grabbed a quill and tore off some parchment. She quickly scribbled her name then proceeded to the back table. There were plants sitting side-by-side in messy rows. There wasn't much space left, but Sorrow managed to find room near the corner of the tabletop. From the looks of it, most of the students had chosen to grow herbs; they were simple and easy to keep alive. She, herself, contemplated growing thyme, but decided against it at the last moment. She was glad she had. There was nothing worse than blending with the masses.

Sorrow stretched the length of her body over the table so that she could reach the small, empty space. She bumped a few flowerpots in the processes before successfully planting her succulents on the table. Something wet and sticky grazed her wrist. She glanced down to find the source of the gummy residue. There, directly in front of her succulents, was an outstretched, red, sticky, frayed tentacle. Sorrow bent closer to inspect the strange leaf. It was delicate, yet foreboding. It reminded her of a balding fox tail that had been beaded with sap. It was a Cape Sundew…why hadn't _**she **_thought of growing a Cape Sundew?

Suddenly, her succulents were a little less pretty.

She searched the inside of the exotic pot for a name. There, in beautiful script, was signed – _Tom Riddle._

A low rumble vibrated from the depths of Sorrow's chest. She should have known it would be him. And, it seemed he was the only one who had thought to grow the carnivorous plant.

_Well, isn't he Mr. Perfect?_

The Cape Sundew was framed by small, red bell flowers with flaming yellow edges. All three plants were varying shades of red that contrasted prettily against the green foliage. Though it wasn't an overly challenging selection of plants, it certainly looked impressive, and to any novice, it looked impossible. Then again, that was all Tom could be. Impressive and impossible…and maybe a little irritating.

Sorrow clicked her tongue before spinning on her heels and traipsing out of the greenhouse. She wasn't sure where she was going or what she was going to do to pass the time, but what she did know was that she had to leave the wet heat of the glass building if she wanted to stay conscious. She'd rather not visit Madam Demzai so soon.

Her tummy flopped and contracted uncomfortably, releasing a high-pitched squeal. She realized she hadn't eaten breakfast. She glanced at her watch; it was nearly 10:30a.m. It was too late for breakfast, and lunch didn't begin for Ravenclaws until 11:30a.m. She would be allowed into the dining hall to buy snacks, but she wouldn't be allowed to stay and eat at the tables. It would be another Houses' designated time for munching, and they would need all the seating for themselves.

Sorrow passed under the tall, columned archway that framed the dining hall. As expected, every seat was taken. Chatter filled the air until it was heavy with indistinguishable buzzing. She glanced around the room as she made her way down the center aisle toward the snack table. Green and silver shimmered from banners above her head. It was Slytherin's lunch hour.

When she reached the table of snacks, there was a small line of students waiting their turn to purchase fruits, muffins, and candies. She surveyed the platters laid out before her, contemplating which she preferred. She noticed that the apple juice was out of stock…she would have to settle for orange juice.

_How fitting._

She pulled out a wallet and withdrew some change, enough for a glass of OJ and a banana. She would be eating lunch soon enough; she didn't want to ruin her appetite. The boy ahead of her ordered chocolate covered raisins and a butter beer. Quite disgusting.

She folded her money into her palm as she waiting for her turn to order. She scanned the Dining Hall. There were so many students. The ages ranged from first years to seventh years. All of them congregated together for lunch, but never did they mingle beyond a few grades.

Was Tom here? Or had he already finished lunch?

Her eyes flickered from one table that consisted of mostly first and second years to another that seated slightly older students. If anywhere, Tom would be somewhere in that section.

What if he _was_ here? What if he wasn't finished eating? What if he was watching her? What if he was _watching her look for him?_

Sorrow snapped her gaze back to the front of the line. Only two people were ahead of her now. She was being paranoid. Why did she think she was so special that he would notice her arrival? Or even _care_? And how could he know she was looking for _him_? There were hundreds of students in the hall. He wasn't the only boy she talked with. Well…maybe he was, but he certainly wasn't the only Slytherin. She was being stupid…and self-conscious. If anything, he would be eating and conversing with his friends, not looking for her. He wouldn't notice her.

The thought made her stomach tighten. She wanted his attention. She didn't want to compete for it.

What was she thinking? She and Tom were only acquaintances! This was hardly an appropriate time for becoming possessive. Besides…he might not like her.

There was that feeling again – the feeling that her stomach had been torn out of her ass before being stomped on, then smashed back in through her bellybutton.

Why did she care so much about what he thought?

It was because he was intelligent, and witty, and kind, and handsome, and responsible, and determined, and successful, and handsome, and charming, and smart, and sweet, and handsome…

He really was beautiful…

Did he think she was pretty? Probably not. No one ever did. She was the smart one; that was all.

Suddenly she felt very ugly.

"Miss…" a squeaky voice called.

"Huh?" Sorrow blinked then focused her gaze. She was next in line to order. Apparently she had been frozen in place like a nincompoop.

"Sorry…" Sorrow fumbled for her money before unfolding it and handing it to the snack lady.

"Um…Dear, what would you like?" The woman asked while taking the money, a confused expression on her face.

"What? Oh! Yes! Um…I'd like a banana and an orange juice, please." She blushed. What had gotten into her?

"Comin' right up, Buttercup," the woman grinned.

After Sorrow received her order in a brown paper bag, she turned to leave. The line had grown quite long. Thank goodness she had come early. She clutched the bag of goodies in one hand while she walked down the center aisle once more, passing the crammed tables of Slytherins, but this time she felt uncharacteristically self-conscious. She felt as if all eyes were on her and a piece of toilet tissue that was stuck to her shoe. She stiffened and straightened her posture.

Why was she feeling this way? No one was looking at her. And besides, Tom was probably gone, so there was no need to pretend to be pretty. She was acting ridiculous. She was no one important. No one was looking at her.

She continued to walk, which seemed like the longest walk of her life. She would never do this again; she would never come to the dining hall before it was Ravenclaw's hour!

A hand seized her wrist.

Sorrow halted midstride. She looked down at the hand grasping her wrist and followed it along its defined arm, its elbow, its shoulder….its face. Sorrow swallowed.

"Too much of a bother to say hello?" Tom asked, looking up from his lunch plate from the table to her left.

Her stomach fluttered. He _had_ known she was here! He had been watching her all along.

"I…" She swallowed, "I came for a snack; I didn't know where you were, so…"

"I'm hurt," he interrupted. His hand was still fastened firmly around her tiny wrist bone. She glanced down at it quickly before returning her gaze to his hazel eyes. He turned to wipe his mouth gingerly with a napkin.

He was hurt? He wanted her to seek him out?

"It wasn't to hurt you…" she frowned.

Tom turned to look at her once more, his eyes shining as if he hadn't heard her, "sit."

"I can't. I'm a Ravenclaw. It's your lunch hour, not mine."

He stared at her for a moment, his face impassive. She noticed she was still held within his grasp. Finally, he smiled. It was small and fleeting, but a smile nonetheless.

"Don't worry with that. Sit with me," he tugged at her arm, "please?"

Wow. How could she say no? It was Tom and he was asking her – begging her – to sit with him…to talk with him. To hell with the rules!

She smiled and scooted on to the empty seat. Had it been empty this whole time?

He turned his body entirely toward her and flashed a smile, "thank you."

She blinked, awestruck.

"For what?" She breathed.

"For deciding to keep me company," his hand slid from her wrist, edging up her arm. His fingers were so soft and light, she could barely feel them. She strained to feel them; she needed to feel them. She focused all of her attention on what they were doing, where they were touching. She shivered.

"You could not possibly imagine how dull Slytherins can be," his hand was creeping past her shoulder blade now. His fingers were tickling the collarbone hidden beneath her garment. The air was heavy. It was difficult to breathe. She licked her lips; they were so dry.

His eyes were an unearthly green flecked with gold. She had never noticed how colorful they were until now. He was so close; she could see the curvature of his cheekbones, the tautness of his jaw line, the smoothness of his skin, and the pinkness of his thin lips.

"What…what are you doing?" She asked, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

Tom leaned closer. His hand was wrapped around her neck, gently caressing it, "Talking."

He had been talking? She couldn't remember a thing he had said. Was he really touching her? Oh, God, if he was, please don't let him stop!

His fingers trailed down her jugular, pausing momentarily to massage the skin before curling around the neck of her tie, "I was complimenting you, Sorrow, for your intellect and ability to entertain."

"You're touching me," she whispered. She was staring at his lips. They were the most perfect lips she had ever seen. How badly she wanted to taste them.

Tom chuckled, "I have to."

Sorrow blinked, momentarily lifted from her fog, "What?"

He moved closer, as close as he could without touching her. His face was inches from her own and his lips, those delicious lips, were dancing near her ear, "how else am I going to remove your clothing?"

Sorrow tensed. Had Tom just said what she thought he had just said? To her? She began to tremble. It was a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and need. She snapped her head back from his, "You do realize we're in the lunch hall?"

"Of course, why else would I be removing your tie and cloak?" Tom asked, looking utterly confused.

"What?" Her tie and cloak? Sorrow looked down at his hands, which had somehow without her knowledge, removed her tie. They were now working on removing her cloak.

"Well," he continued after he realized Sorrow would not, "how else do you expect to sit here? We cannot allow them to see that you're a Ravenclaw…"

Her eyes widened. She had just conjured up a seduction in the dinner hall! She was such a fool! A humiliated fool!

The blood from Sorrow's face drained away. All she could do was gawk before finally saying, "Yes, well, I know that. I just mean…I have to go. My next class is about to start and there really isn't a need to take off my tie and cloak…"

Tom studied her for a moment. It was the same expressionless look from a few moments ago. "So you're leaving?"

Sorrow stood, her shaking hands snatching her cloak and tie, "Oh, yes. I'm afraid so. Busy, busy bee!" She stumbled backwards, tripping on a Slytherin's book bag.

Tom grabbed her bfore she fell. His movements were alarmingly quick.

"When will I see you again?" He asked.

He wanted to see her again? After her humiliating, idiotic assumption? Did_ she_ even want to see him again after her humiliating, idiotic assumption?

"You know where I live," she blurted before sprinting out of the dining hall. It was a stupid line, but she couldn't manage wit at the moment. She needed to leave, to escape to Ravenclaw Tower.

And perhaps bang her head against Rowena a few times.

* * *

**End Notes:** _Tom, you're such a cruel, devious boy :)_

_'Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs' is a real romance novel, by the way :P_


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